Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain
by dances-with-cacti
Summary: "You taught me the difference between life and mindless existence. For that, Dean, I will always be in your debt. If there's a chance you can be saved, however small, I'm going to try." [After killing Cain, Dean's sanity slips away. Desperate to save him, Castiel seeks out Crowley to make a dangerous trade. Post-Executioner's Song.] [Dark Dean, Badass Cas, Sam & Charlie friendship]
1. Chapter 1

Dear Readers: This story takes place after the events of "Executioner's Song," but will from there on be AU. As a warning, this story will deal with some sensitive material and graphic descriptions that some folks might find hard to stomach, so please take that into consideration. However, I will do my best to make chapters with M-rated content optional, so that readers can skip them, if they'd like to, and still enjoy the story with a T-rating.

I hope you enjoy!

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Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter One

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Sam had asked him to stay.

Hands in his coat pockets, Castiel paced the bunker's long, grey halls.

He was relieved, actually. It was a good excuse. With Cain dead and the blade hidden, Castiel _should_ have been searching for some way to cure Dean of the mark. If Sam hadn't asked him to help keep watch, he would have torn himself away to do just that, despite the worry he shared with Dean's little brother.

As he roamed, the light bulbs above Castiel's head sputtered and browned in their tin pan shades. Wherever he went, the eerie buzz-pop of disrupted electronics followed. It had been while, he realized, since he'd lost control of himself like this. With great effort, pulled himself inward, condensing his energy into a tiny thrumming orb. It wouldn't do either Winchester any good if they noticed how upset he was.

Castiel made pass after pass through the bunker's many corridors, finally seeing Sam off to bed around one-thirty in the morning. The younger Winchester rubbed his neck as he climbed the stairs out of the great room, commenting ruefully, "Nothing good happens after 2 a.m. anyway."

Castiel watched him go, blinked, and then turned away. He had no words of comfort to offer.

With Sam in his quarters, the angel made his way quietly back the way he'd come, going door to door until he came to the one with Dean behind it. With hardly a sound, he passed into the room, reappearing with a flicker at the end of Dean's bed. Solemn as stone, he looked down at his friend.

A single lamp burned in a sconce above the bed, casting long shadows over Dean's twitching frame. He was asleep, collapsed in a restless mess across the bedcovers, looking like someone had tossed him there. Castiel worried at his pale skin and drawn features. Even asleep, Dean looked exhausted. The angel's frown deepened.

Despite the dark, the jawbone burn on Dean's arm stood out, hot and angry-looking. Its red power hissed and spit in a tone Castiel suspected only he and its bearer could hear. The thought of all that para-human rage weighing on Dean left him deeply unsettled. They had all seen its effect—Sam, Crowley, even Cain himself—but he wagered that of all of them, he was the one who felt that evil most strongly. The mark was, after all, an angelic brand, bastardized and ancient. Though he'd never mention it, the aftertaste of Lucifer's hatred soured Dean's every exhale, filling the air with a scent that chilled Castiel to his most constituent parts.

Shivering even in his vessel, the angel pulled a wood stool to the corner of the room and sat there, elbows on his knees, hands knitted together. Given that Dean wasn't particularly comfortable with being watched while he slept, Castiel made it so he was just outside the field of human perception. If Dean awoke, he would still sense a watchful presence somewhere in the room, but if he looked to Castiel's corner, he'd see nothing there. This was the angel's usual strategy when it came to playing keeper of his charge. It was common for him to watch over Dean, but the young man didn't appreciate it being so obvious._ It was creepy_, he said, and after many reminders about privacy and personal space, Castiel had finally relented. Sort of. While not quite as hard-headed as Dean, the angel had his own stubborn streak. He refused to leave Dean unattended, but arranged it so no one looking in could ever tell he was there. This seemed to sooth Dean's pride, and so it went on, never mentioned.

Lately, though, it had been different. Usually, Dean rested easy while Castiel kept watch, but since the mark, it was almost as if Dean could smell the remnants of heaven on the angel as sharply as Castiel could smell sulfur on demons. Now when Castiel came to watch over him, Dean often stirred awake, sitting up in bed and scanning the room. It unnerved Castiel to see those green eyes pan back and forth until they settled on a space very near his chosen post. He knew Dean couldn't actually see him, but though the hunter never said anything, it was obvious he knew the angel was near. Castiel's only reassuring thought was that Dean never asked him to leave.

Tonight was no different. Castiel stiffened slightly in his seat when Dean suddenly growled against his pillow, body growing taught as he awoke. Slowly, the hunter rolled onto his elbow, bringing a hand across his eyes and massaging his temples. He lay that way for a long moment before dropping his arm in defeat. He looked terrible. With a fogged expression, he stared down at the mark, looking unsurprised that it was still there, but obviously wishing it wasn't. Covering it with a hand, he sighed.

"For christ's sake, Cas, I don't know why you bother hiding anymore. I know you're there."

There weren't many things capable of startling Castiel, but Dean's remark took him by surprise. He blinked, alarmed to see Dean's sunken eyes slide over to where he was sitting. Without coming into view, the angel stood and asked, "Can . . . can you see me?"

Dean swung his legs of the side of the bed. Scrubbing his face with his hands, he blew a heavy breath, "No."

Castiel allowed himself to manifest.

"How did you know I was here?"

Dean scratched his neck and squinted at the wall, mouth pressed into a line.

"Pretty sure I always do, now," he said. He gave the angel a sideways look that Castiel refused to return. Instead, his gaze drifted around the room as he paced absently, prodding at the various weapons Dean had on display.

"I'm surprised," he said while examining a knife, "that you never mentioned it."

Castiel was behind Dean, now, and stared at the back of his head. The hunter shrugged, "Yeah, well."

He didn't continue.

Slowly, Castiel set the knife back in its place and crossed to friend, taking a seat beside him. Without a word, he reached across and took Dean's arm in his hands, examining the mark with the same gingerly attention he had given Dean's other weapons. The angel looked hard at the mark while its bearer looked hard at the floor, the lower half of his face twisted into a rueful smile.

"Glare at it all you want, Cas, I don't think the thing's gonna be scared off by dirty looks."

Castiel stared at Dean.

"This is not a joking matter."

Dean chuckled and sat up to argue, but stopped when he saw the look on the angel's face. There was deep worry there, a dark anxiety that made his gaze heavy and unavoidable. Castiel tried to contain it, but it was useless. Suddenly, the bulb in the wall sconce browned and flashed, nearly burning out. On the desk, a transistor radio squealed and crackled without being touched. For a brief moment, the whole room came alive with the electric surge of angelic hurt.

Dean looked around the room with wide eyes, putting up his hands in surrender.

"Yeah, alright, Cas," Dean placated, "you're right. It's not funny. Now calm down, before we both go nuclear."

Castiel stared at him and breathed deeply. Gradually, the buzzing died down and the electronics went quiet. When the angel spoke, it was with grave purpose.

"I don't appreciate your blasé attitude toward this . . . situation."

Dean held his arm and nodded.

"I can see that."

"I mean it, Dean."

"I know you do. _Look_," the hunter stood, still clasping the mark on his arm, "I get it. I'm off the reservation. This thing has got me on a hair trigger and I don't know when I'm gonna go off. But what I _do_ know is this: Cain turned me into a loose nuke, and he meant for me to blow tonight. But I didn't. I kept it together, and I've still got some marbles left, can still count backwards from ten, _whatever_. And I know that's small comfort given what the mark has gotten me to do, but dammit if I'm not going to take it as a win."

Dean's voice was breathy and shaking. Trying to steady himself, he turned to brace his hands against the desktop.

"Cas," he went on, "if I don't get to have a laugh and a smile despite this mess, I'm gonna lose my freaking mind. But don't you _ever_ mistake that for me not taking this shit seriously."

Castiel sat in brief silence, then apologized.

Dean rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

"It's not your fault, Cas, I knew it all might go to hell like this."

The smile that broke across the young man's face pulled at something deep in Castiel's being. He swallowed heavily and looked at his knitted hands.

"Dean," his said, but the hunter was busy pouring himself two fingers of whiskey.

"_Dean_."

The young man turned, "What, you want some?"

Castiel just looked at him.

"I'm going to find a cure, Dean."

A soft look passed across the hunter's face but was gone before the angel could place it. If he had to guess, he'd bet it was pity. Then again, human expressions were still a bit foreign to him, despite all his time living among them.

Dean offered no help, only tilted his glass at him in a mock-toast before downing its contents in one go.

"To a cure," he said, setting the glass down on the desk, though he didn't sound as though he believed there was one.

Castiel nodded mechanically, echoing, "To a cure."

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask Questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	2. Chapter 2

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Two

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Dean felt regret the way iron felt rust.

Clearing his throat on the burn of cheap whiskey, the young man hung his head. Remorse, he realized, was a very lonesome feeling. It held on like a crust, leaving him red and brittle where he'd once been sharp and strong. Try to chip away at it, and there'd be nothing left but dullness and dust.

Hands pressed against the desktop, Dean stared down into his empty glass. Funny, really, how the jack still went down so easy. It was one of the few things left that had any flavor in it. He rarely ate now, but when he did, the food turned to ash in his mouth. Even water churned in his stomach, feeling clammy as it went down. But whiskey, well . . . in spite of everything, it still seemed to do its job.

Thank God for small miracles.

"Dean."

The hunter looked up but didn't turn. He hadn't forgotten Castiel was there, but he hadn't really remembered, either.

"Cas," he said, as way of reply. He stared ahead in silence at a crack in the bunker wall. There was a long pause before the angel said anything else.

"Dean, I . . ." he hesitated, "I usually refrain for asking questions with obvious answers, but are you alright?"

Now Dean looked at him. From his place on the bed, Castiel returned the gaze, eyes steady and blue. Over the years, many things had changed about the angel, but his fearless expression wasn't one of them. As usual, his vessel's face was tooled into a stare that made one thing quite clear: he'd accept none of the young man's usual dishonesty.

Dean sighed. Grabbing the stool from the corner of the room, he put it between his legs and sat heavily. As an afterthought, he grabbed the fifth of whisky from the desk and took a long, alcoholic's pull. At Castiel's disapproving blink, Dean raised an eyebrow and cocked a hand.

"You want me to talk thoughts and feelings?" he asked, "Then you can bet your feathery ass I'm gonna grease up the gears a little. Now, quit with that . . . that passive-aggressive fidget thing."

Castiel had a tendency to fuss in his seat when agitated, and it drove Dean crazy. Mostly, this was because Dean was fairly certain the angel had picked up the habit from him, a fact which the young man found unsettling.

Thankfully, Castiel seemed to understand what he'd meant about the fidgeting and quickly went still. He said nothing as Dean broke eye contact, looking down at the brand on his arm. As force of habit, the hunter flexed his hand, feeling the pull of the mark as if it were a scar. The movement always sent a little twinge through him, as though the mark's power could be stirred by just that much. The feeling was frightening, but addicting.

Still looking at his arm, Dean took another swig of jack. He glanced at the angel.

"I'm anything but alright," he said, "and you know that."

He flexed his hand again.

Castiel sat still, listening. He often got that way when intently focused, to the point that Dean was pretty sure he stopped breathing. It was obvious he expected the young man to elaborate.

Dean cleared his throat.

"The thing tonight with Cain, it was, uh . . . well, it wasn't fun."

Castiel nodded, "Obviously."

Dean gave him a pinched smile.

"I mean aside from having to bring the axe down on the guy," he went on, "Cain said some shit that I could have done without hearing, you know? And I'm just having a hard time shaking it off."

"What did he say?"

Dean shrugged.

"A lot of it I already knew," he said, "Or kinda knew. I may not have wanted to believe it, but it was in there. Some of the other things, though . . . well, those things I didn't know. And I refuse to believe them."

He drank down more whisky, his nerves finally starting to feel fleecy. There wasn't much else that could calm him down these days, though Cas being around helped a little. Usually, it helped more, but after tonight . . . Dean pressed his hands together so they wouldn't shake. Cain's words circled in his mind, keening like vultures: _And then you'll kill the angel. That, I suspect, will hurt something awful._

Dean closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Images were flashing through his mind, uncontrolled, holding on like bad fantasies. He saw bone knives, blood spatter, and crying white lights . . . Cas, pinned beneath him, screaming like the sun. His dying was something cosmic, like a nightmare—worse, even, because Dean knew it was possible. He knew he could do it.

The mark pulsed, sending a red hunger running through him. Dean gasped and covered the thing again, as though that would shut it up.

"Dean?"

"It's, uh, it just tingles a little."

It was a weak explanation, and Dean knew Cas could see past it. Though he couldn't bear looking at him with the mark putting such dark thoughts in his head, Dean could practically see the furrow forming above the angel's eyes.

"Did Cain mention anything about a cure?"

Dean let out a bitter laugh, trying to reign in his frustration.

"Just the opposite, actually."

Cain's words rang in his head: _There's only remission, and relapse!_

The vultures in his mind circled lower.

"Perhaps he lied," Castiel suggested. The hope in his voice was crushing. Dean set his teeth until he jaw ached.

"He didn't."

"We can't be sure—"

"No, _you_ can't be sure!"

The bottle of jack left Dean's hand to smash against the wall.

The anger came on in an instant, hitting like a fit. It took all of Dean's good sense to control it. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, blood roaring in his ears, fingernails biting into his arm. The will of the mark hissed in his head, filling it with evil things. If Cas hadn't stayed where he was, calm and still, Dean might lost it completely.

As it was, the angel just stared at him with grave concern, afraid _for_ him, but not _of_ him.

"Don't listen to it," he said softly, but Dean could hardly hear him. Doubled over, he panted, trying to force down the rising heat in his body. It was nearly impossible, like trying to stop alcohol from getting him drunk by sheer force of will. Staggering towards the wall, Dean held up a hand to keep Castiel away, even though the angel hadn't moved.

"_Don't_ argue with me," he gasped. It was more a plea than a warning. Holding his arm to his body, he sank down the floor and pressed his head to his knees. More gruesome images reeled through his brain, fueled by his random spurt of rage. The fight with Cain had worn him thin—he could barely get annoyed without losing his mind.

"Please, just . . . don't argue with me."

"Alright, Dean."

The hunter looked up from under his hands.

"How are you just sitting there? How are you not flipping your angelic lid right now? You were all static and sparklers when you first came in."

Castiel swallowed hard. It was the first emotion Dean had read off the angel since he'd messed with the lights earlier.

"I think your concern about us both 'going nuclear' was well placed. I think 'flipping my lid' would exacerbate your situation."

Dean pursed his lips, trying with everything he had to slow the pounding of his heart. He felt the grip of the mark loosening again, but he was still twitchy. One wrong word and he'd be over the edge again. Forcing himself to look hard at Cas, Dean noticed with a start how white-knuckled the angel's hands were. Castiel, he realized, was putting a lot of effort into appearing as collected as he seemed.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Dean asked.

"Sam is concerned."

The hunter raised an eyebrow.

"So what, you're babysitting me now?"

"It's nothing out of the ordinary."

The angel had a point.

"Would you like me to leave?" Castiel asked.

"Would you actually go if I did?"

The angel just blinked. He might have looked a little hurt.

Dean chuckled to assuage him, setting his head back against the wall, "Yeah, I didn't think so."

"I told Sam I'd watch over you. As I said, he's concerned."

"How is Sammy, anyway?"

". . . concerned."

Dean stared at the angel, palm pressed to his forehead. With an awkward shift, Cas added uncertainly, "Physically, he's fine."

The hunter rolled his eyes, "Thank you, Cas."

"You're welcome. Are you feeling better? You seem less . . ."

"Homicidal? Yeah, it comes and goes."

"With increasing frequency."

It wasn't a question.

Dean hesitated.

"Kinda."

Castiel leaned forward.

"What does it feel like?"

"What does what feel like, the mark? Itchy, mostly."

"Dean. I mean the effects."

Dean frowned, looking down at the thing in question. The brand looked redder and angrier than before, probably as a result of the fit. He began to flex his hand again. It took a long moment before he felt he had the words to describe what the mark did to him.

"If you've ever loved someone," he began, "and had that person hurt you until you hated them, then that's how it feels. Except . . . the mark, it makes a part of me feel that way about everyone, all the time, for no reason. Every time I've killed since Cain gave me the mark, its felt personal, like I was getting some sort revenge. And it's been . . . it's been awesome. The part of me that feels like this, it loves every bit of it. And it wants more, Cas. It's hard to stop."

For a brief moment, electricity surged through the room again as Castiel's control slipped.

"Dean. What did Cain say to you?"

The angel's voice was edged with something deep, like the low roll of thunder. For some reason, it shook Dean, and before he could stop it, his eyes were burning and wet. The visions of Cas's death were still fresh in his head, making the truth a lot harder to admit, but—at last—he broke.

"Dammit, you bastard," he said without malice, "the sick fuck said I'm gonna _kill_ you, Cas. You and Sam. And now, I'm just . . . I'm not sure he's wrong."

Castiel looked pale, but shook his head with confidence.

"He _is_ wrong, Dean. I won't allow it."

The hunter cracked a watery smile.

"That's the scary part," he said slowly, "I don't think you'd be able to stop me."

A flash of resignation passed across the angel's face, all but confirming what Dean thought was true. Not only that, but Castiel had already suspected it. The way Cain had disarmed him, tossed him aside . . . _Dean_ had that kind of power, if he chose to embrace it. If he turned it on Cas, there'd be nothing the angel could do to defend himself.

"Cas, you gotta make me a promise," he went on, "You gotta make me a promise and swear to God—wherever he is—that you'll keep it."

Castiel said nothing, but lowered his head a fraction in acknowledgement.

"If I start going postal," Dean said, "and I mean, even just a little, you gotta promise you'll put me down. No hesitation. No hail Mary's, no race for a cure—just put me down. Can you do that?"

Dean heard the hint of desperation in his own voice, saw it make Castiel's face twitch.

"Cas."

With obvious reluctance, the angel finally nodded.

"Yes, Dean. I can promise you this."

Comforted, Dean sat back with a sigh. He almost didn't notice how, between one blink and the next, Castiel flickered and disappeared. By the time he realized Cas was beside him, the angel was touching his temple, willing him to sleep. Dean's world went dark to a spark of blue eyes and a gentle remark: _Rest now_.

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	3. Chapter 3

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Three

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Sam awoke sandy-eyed and groggy to the wail of his alarm clock. Startled, he floundered in his bed, searching through the dark for the snooze button. It was always a strange experience, waking up underground. Without the light of sunrise, Sam could never tell where night ended and day began. As a result, his sleep never felt as restful as he would have liked. This morning, though, he was surprised he felt as refreshed as he did, given the events of the night before.

With a one-eyed shuffle, Sam got out of bed and headed for the bathroom, a wad of fresh clothes under his arm. Breaking from routine, he allowed himself to take longer than necessary to wash and dress, enjoying the rare sensation of cleanliness. Hair still wet from the shower, the hunter gathered a light breakfast from the kitchens and made his way down into the great room.

As he descended the stairs, Sam was so focused on not spilling his coffee that he nearly collided with a filing cabinet that had inexplicably ended up smack in the middle of the walk-way. When he finally looked up from negotiating the out-of-place furniture, he stopped fast in his tracks. In his shock, the slice of toast he'd been carrying between his teeth dropped to the floor.

The great room was a disaster.

The whole place looked as if it had been attacked by a mad secretary. Everywhere there were files, books, journals, maps, scrolls, records of every type strewn about without any apparent order. Aside from the wayward filing cabinet, several shelving units had been staggered throughout the room, obviously pulled from some forgotten closet deep in the bunker. The whole scene was madness the likes of which Sam hadn't seen since Kevin was alive. At its center, there stood one very haggard-looking trench-coated angel.

With two folders under one arm and a third held inches from his face, Castiel appeared completely engrossed in his research—he hadn't even looked up when Sam entered the room. To keep from startling him, the younger Winchester set his breakfast gingerly on the table, wiping his hands on his jeans. He cleared his throat.

"Um, Cas?"

The angel picked up another file and opened it. He said nothing.

"Cas."

Again, nothing.

"Cas!"

The angel's head shot up. His eyes were uncharacteristically hard.

"_What_, Sam?!"

"Um," the hunter broke eye contact to look around the room, "Are you . . . okay?"

Castiel huffed, turning back to his folder. Sam took that as a no. He was a little surprised—Cas certainly had a penchant for being moody, but it had been a while since he'd been _this_ short with him. Brow furrowing, Sam started looking through the documents littering the captain's table.

"Hex cases, witchery reports, dark alchemy . . . philosopher's stones? Geez, Cas, what exactly are you looking for here?"

With an eye-roll and a sigh, the angel snapped shut the file in his hand and turned to fix Sam with an exasperated stare. Without a word, he shoved the folder against the young hunter's chest. As Castiel turned to sit and brood, Sam flipped quickly through the documents he'd been given. He frowned.

"_I_ wrote this report," he said, "In fact, I . . . I shelved it just last week."

Sam held up a photo of a handsome, sandy-haired boy. In the image, the boy was smirking up to his eyes, holding out his arm so the camera had a clear shot of his forearm.

"This is Dean," he said, "from that witch thing that happened a few weeks ago."

Cas nodded without looking at him, "Yes. It is."

Sam expected the angel to elaborate. When he didn't, the hunter squinted at the photo a while longer, trying to understand what Cas had found without having to ask. At last, he gave up, dropping the report on the table.

"I'm sorry, Cas, but I'm not connecting the dots. What's going on?"

A tendon in Castiel's jaw began to pulse. When he spoke, his words were terse:

"You failed to inform me of the fact that, when that witch hexed Dean into a younger version of himself, the mark of Cain vanished."

"Well, I mean I didn't think it was relevant . . ." Sam trailed off, hands up defensively. He hesitated. "_Is_ that relevant?"

"I don't know, Sam. You have something here that could essentially save your brother from becoming a raving mass of homicidal intent. You tell me, is that relevant?"

The cut of the angel's sarcasm caused Sam to bristle.

"Not if he's gonna end up a kid again," he shot back, "We're not idiots, Cas. Sure, it was great that turning back Dean's clock got rid of the mark, but you know as well as us he couldn't fight the good fight in that condition. If he'd stayed that way, we'd have been trading one problem for another. Now, if you think you've caught something we missed, great, but you don't have to be a dick about it."

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Castiel looked away, shoulders dropping. His temper, Sam realized, was coming from a place of deep concern. It was hard to fault him for that, especially when he looked so tired.

More gently, Sam went on, "We've all been a little stressed lately. Though, that's probably an understatement. Regardless, we all want the same thing here, so why don't we just sit down and go over this stuff.."

With some reluctance, the angel nodded. He sighed.

"Fine."

Taking a seat at the table, the pair divvied up Castiel's haphazard stacks and began sorting for the most relevant information. Sam frowned as he looked into the files.

"This is some dark stuff, here, Cas."

"Yes, it is."

"I mean, we're talking human sacrifices, transactional possessions, demonic siphons . . . this is stuff even _we_ haven't seen."

Castiel looked up.

"Stuff _you_ haven't seen," he corrected.

Something in the way he said it made Sam want to shiver. He sat back as Castiel pushed another folder towards him.

"You aren't . . . you aren't thinking of doing this kind of stuff, are you?"

This, at last, made the angel pause. He fixed Sam with a burning look.

"Don't ask stupid questions."

Sam turned up his palms.

"Hey, you're the one skimming recipes that list 'still-beating baby hearts' as an ingredient. Forgive me for being a little worried."

"We aren't going to use these spells, Sam. We're going to find the things that are."

"What? You mean witches?"

"Yes, witches."

"Like, witch-witches?"

Castiel squinted in annoyance.

"Yes."

Sam took a deep breath, feeling more than a little alarmed.

"Let me get this straight," he said, "You want to use these . . . rituals . . . to somehow track down a witch and, what? Ask it to incant away Dean's mark?"

Castiel thought about it a moment, then nodded.

"Essentially, yes."

"You're joking."

The angel huffed.

"Sam, it's been years. When are you going to learn that comedy is not a primary aspect of my personality? No, I am not 'joking.'"

An awkward silence fell between them. Sam avoided Castiel's waiting expression, scrubbing his hands over his face. He needed to process.

"Cas," he said at last, "You know we're always up for a challenge around here, but witches . . . man, they're not angels, and they're not demons. They're humans . . . sneaky, twisted, unpredictable humans. And the last couple that we tangled with, we barely got away with our lives. I don't like the idea doing it again . . . especially not on purpose, not with Dean like he is."

"We don't have a choice, Sam. If we want to get rid of the mark, we need a witch, and an old one . . . one who's very powerful. They aren't easy to find, and are even harder to control, but it's the only chance we've got."

"But—"

"Sam. We're running out of time. We don't have a choice."

Sam sank low in his seat and stared at the angel. He was right, of course. They both knew it. Dean was on thin ice, deathly close to plunging down into the pit of his own darker self. If the three of them didn't find a cure, or at least a treatment, it wouldn't be a matter of if they'd lose him, but when.

Since he'd come in with his breakfast—now sitting cold—Sam had stopped himself asking Cas about how Dean was fairing. He knew he wouldn't like the answer; he could tell from the frustrated urgency that rolled off the angel in waves. Now, though, he found he couldn't keep the question in any longer:

"How bad is he, Cas?"

Castiel looked away. For a split second, a look of raw anguish occupied his features before skittering away. In that moment, Sam felt a twinge of jealousy. He forgot, sometimes, how uniquely close his big brother and the angel really were. If Cas was this upset over Dean's state of mind, that was all the answer Sam needed. He felt cold fear bloom in his chest.

"Well," Sam relented, "with a tracking spell, bagging a witch shouldn't be too difficult. Even if it doesn't give us an exact location, we'll have an idea of where to start looking."

Castiel shook his head, appearing grateful for the subject change.

"Any witch you can find by scrying will be too weak to help us," he said, "We need one that's strong enough to ward against things that are strong enough to kill them . . . things like me. And you. You never would have found that Brother's Grimm witch with a spell."

"So, how are we going to find a witch that can't be found?"

"Indirectly."

" . . . Explain."

Castiel leaned over the table to grab a yellowed tome, turning it to a dog-eared page. He pointed to a pictogram of a very unsettling-looking woman, skin covered in symbols.

"There are several different kinds of witches. Some are born powerful, or 'naturally talented.' Others have little to no ability at all and have to borrow their power. Usually, they make deals with demons or siphon energy from magical creatures. However, even among witches, there has typically been order. Covens, for example, have bylaws and limitations on the kinds of magic they will perform. Of course, there have always been witches that . . . _reject_ the notion of forbidden magic. These creatures, Sam, they . . . well, they dabble in very dark, very ancient things. They are very powerful, and very dangerous."

Sam pulled a face.

"I take it that's _exactly_ the kind of witch we need to find."

Castiel nodded, looking as reluctant as Sam felt.

"That's correct. The thing about these witches is that their spell-work is distinctive, often accompanied by signs."

"Like demon activity."

"Yes, exactly, though more subtle. But if you know what to look for—"

"Then you can locate the witch."

Castiel nodded again, causing Sam to pull his palms down the sides of his face in relief. He leaned back in his chair, grinning.

"Alright," he said, sweeping a hand over the tabletop, "Where do we start?"

* * *

Reviews are loved.

Critiques are encouraged.

Always feel free to ask questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: I wanted to drop a quite note on Castiel's characterization. Personally, I've always been a very big fan of Cas in his earliest incarnation. Recently, I've felt a little uncomfortable at how for his character has strayed from the original form. My goal is to recapture the more pensive, soldier-like angel to which we were all introduced, while still respecting the show's efforts to make him dynamic. For this reason, "my" Castiel will like seem more subdued, more awkward, and less "cuddly" than he's been in the show of late. Same thing with Crowley. Really, if it helps to put it this way, my fic is more DC than Marvel. I hope this works well for you all.

As always, reviews are much loved. They provide motivation and perspective. Let me know what works, what doesn't, etc.

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Four

* * *

Dean came to in front of the bathroom mirror without any memory of how he'd gotten there. In the wake of receding senselessness, he caught sight of himself in the glass. Even by his own assessment, he did not look well. Supporting himself against the sink, the hunter swayed, looking into a face so drawn and pale he barely recognized it as his own. Everything about him looked like ash, like something left over, or something washed out. Unnerved, he swallowed, looking down into the sink basin.

Taking a breath, Dean went to splash water on his eyes to dull out their puffy redness, but noticed as he did his hands were weak with tremors. He pulled them into fists to make it stop.

Under his sleeve, the mark pulsed hot.

The feeling of the thing coming awake shook Dean to his center. He couldn't bear to look at. Already, he could feel its poison working, dark impulses crackling up his brainstem. Images from the night before returned again, taking up residence in his headspace like a beachhead.

Shaking, Dean brought his fists to his brow and pressed.

"Hey, Dean! You in there!?"

The sudden pounding at the door had the hunter scrambling back from the sink in alarm. His heart pounded in his chest.

"Dean? Hello-o!"

It was Sam. Sammy was at the door. Swallowing hard, Dean managed to croak out a reply.

"Y-yeah! Yeah, I'm here, what's up?"

"Can I come in?"

There was a brief moment in which Dean's mind sputtered. Behind his eyes, images stirred—he saw his own hand, fist pulled tight, busting through the speckled mirror above the sink basin. He saw a long, jagged shard held in his bloodied fingers—saw that shard slide effortlessly into the side of Sam's neck as the young man walked through the door.

Dean stood, hands braced against the walls to either side of him, searching for the heartbeat that had stopped in his chest.

Sam called out again.

"Dean? Hello-o! Can I come in or not?'

Dean shook himself.

"Sure! Sure. Yeah, it's fine, come in."

For a moment, nothing happened. Sam cleared his throat on this other side of the door.

"Can you, uh, unlock the door, Dean?"

"It's not locked."

Sam rattled the knob emphatically.

"Yes. It is."

"Oh," Dean blinked, reaching over to slide the latch. He, of course, had no memory of locking the door in the first place. Disconcerted, he took a few steps back as Sam barreled in.

"Hey!" Sam beamed, the picture of unbridled enthusiasm. His lips were twitching against the sheer force of his grin. Dean returned his little brother's greeting with a slow, sidelong look.

"Hey…" he drawled, giving Sam a suspicious once-over. It had been an awfully long time since he'd seen his brother look so happy. He couldn't help but feel a little unsettled.

"What's going on with you?" he asked.

Sam rubbed his palms against his jeans in obvious excitement. Even Dean's less-than-cheery reception failed to dampen his good mood.

"What's up with—nothing's up with me!" Sam cut himself off, "Actually, uh, it's just that Cas said you'd probably be awake by now, and um . . . well, we have some good news."

Dean regarded him warily.

"Good news about what, exactly?"

Sam just smiled.

"Come and see."

* * *

"Witches. Really."

It was more a criticism than a question.

Dean sat back in his chair and sighed, feeling old. In front of him stood Castiel and Sam, both holding folders and looking like little kids with book reports. It angered him, almost, to see how enchanted they both were with their new plan. At least Cas had the good sense to still look grim about the whole idea, but even the angel's face was tinged with a hope that had magnified in Sam ten-fold. Dean barely had to the heart to disparage their findings.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dean cleared his throat to break the awkward silence he'd imposed.

"Guys," he said, "I appreciate this. I do. But I gotta think there are better ways for you both to spend your time."

His words hit Sam hard. The younger Winchester's entire body seemed to drop into a frown, calling up a sympathetic glance from the angel at his side. Dean winced at deflating his brother's joy like that, and again at the admonishing stare Castiel turned on him; however, he couldn't let them carry on the way they were going. It wouldn't be right. Bracing a palm against his knee, Dean stood.

"Look," he said, raising a placating hand, "I'm not saying a cure wouldn't be the bees knees, okay? But I've made peace with what I've got going on, and that's given me clear enough mind to know a piss-poor plan when I hear one. I mean, witches? C'mon. You're reaching."

The silence that fell graduated from awkward to strained. Sam was growing visibly upset, pulling steadying breaths throw his nose, but it was Castiel's blank silence that concerned Dean the most. He'd learned, over the years, to recognize the angel's calm before the storm—quite literally. The tension between them now was of a different sort than what existed between him and his brother, because Castiel knew things Sam didn't.

Castiel knew he was lying.

Of course he hadn't made peace with the mark—anything but. Day by day, he could feel its hold grow stronger, could feel his humanity slipping away from him. Denying the urge to kill was tearing him apart, and he'd told Cas as much.

Dean found, suddenly, that he couldn't meet the angel's hard blue gaze. When looking at Sam proved no easier, he looked down.

"So that's it? You're not even going to try?" Sam accused. The young hunter's anger was surfacing.

"Try what?" Dean shot back, "Some half-cocked, desperate hail Mary that's going to get you killed? Sam, there are too many unknowns with this one. We're not even that good against witches! Or have you forgotten what happened to Charlie?"

"But Dean—!"

"Sam," Cas interjected, "Would you mind if I had a private word with your brother?"

There was a moment in which Dean was half certain Sam was going to tell the angel to pound salt, but after several seconds of staring down at the much shorter Castiel, the young hunter relented. With one last, cutting look at his brother, Sam dropped his folder on the table and stormed out of the room. Castiel and Dean were left alone.

With his thumbs in his belt, Dean shifted where he stood.

"You gonna beat me up again, Cas? Like old times?"

The angel was not amused. His eyes bored into Dean's, steady and blue.

"I'm fairly certain it wouldn't end well for me if I tried," he said.

The smirk on Dean's face faltered at the thought. He cleared his throat and looked away.

"Yeah, I guess not." Without meaning to, Dean flexed his blade arm, calling up a spasm from the jaw-bone scar. Like flashbulbs, images burst into mind, fragmented and horrifying: a silver blade, simple and narrow, clattering to the floor; a felled Castiel driven to his knees, mouth ablaze with his final cries; Dean's own hands, heavy with the blood-weight of the angel's tawny coat.

The hunter fought to control his breath.

"Dean…"

The shadows on the floor shifted. Cas was moving closer.

"Dean," he murmured, "I'm not meant to live forever, and a death by your hand would be as good a death as any . . . but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't frightened to have us end it that way."

Dean swallowed hard. Cas went on:

"You are probably the only person who could understand it, but I am entirely changed for having met you. Everything I am, everything I use to define myself . . . you are the fulcrum upon which all that rests. You taught me the difference between life and mindless existence. For that, Dean, I will always be in your debt. If there's a chance you can be saved, however small, I'm going to try. All I ask is that you don't stop me."

The angel's words wore on Dean. He sighed, raising a hand to scratch the back of his head.

"Your plan is shit, Cas," he said, "and I don't want you two getting killed on a hunch."

"Better than us getting killed by you."

The hunter looked up sharply. Castiel's face betrayed little except a vague sorrow. Staring hard at the angel, Dean realized he had no rebuttal. He swung his arm in defeat.

"Fine," he said, his smile cutting and tight, "Do what you want. But how the hell are you gonna bag that skank?"

Castiel squinted.

"What?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"The witch, Cas!" he sighed, "The _witch_. How're gonna grab her? I mean, sure, you can track down her thrall, barbeque his spleen, blah blah, but when it comes down to the boss battle, what're you gonna do, huh? Last time, she turned some poor chick's brain into oatmeal."

"'She?' Who—Dean . . . what are you talking about?"

The hunter stared.

"For fuck's sake…" he groaned, "Cas, you _do_ know about the witch, right? Sam told you about her? _Rowena_?"

The look on the angel's face was both startled and uncomprehending. Dean had his answer. He had to sit down.

_Unbelievable_.

From behind his hands, the hunter went on to ask, very slowly, very strained: "Please . . . tell me you and my idiot brother weren't gonna go goose chasing around for some rand-o witch when we already have one's name and number?"

There was and rustle as Cas shifted awkwardly.

"Dean, I didn't know you already—"

"Course you didn't! 'Cause your plan's shit, Cas! God dammit. Sam! Sam! Get your ass in here!"

The squeak and tumble of boot-steps came barreling down the corridor as Sam rushed back towards the great room. His face looked pale under his disheveled hair as he looked down the stairs to Dean and Castiel.

Dean raised a hand and pointed square at his brother's nose.

"You're a dumbass," he said. He then pulled his hand around and smacked Cas lightly in the chest, "And so are you!"

Sam's eyebrows came together.

"What?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"So Cas spends the night going all Beautiful Mind on our libraries trying to find information on witches and somehow that ho-bag Rowena manages to slip your mind?"

If it was possible, Sam's faced pinched up even more. He looked between Cas and his brother.

"Rowena . . . but, I mean, I didn't figure she's what we're after here."

"Why not?" Dean counted off on his fingers, "She's rogue, she's powerful, and she's been recruiting these, these _thralls_ or whatever. Sounds _exactly_ what you two mooks are after."

Castiel spoke up.

"Do you have a file on your encounter on this witch? I didn't come across it."

Sam shook himself out of his befuddlement.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's in my room, I was working on it. I'll grab it."

As he left the room again, Dean turned back to Castiel with a look of fatigue. With one hand on his hip, he passed the other over his face, breathing deeply.

"If you wanna do this Cas, fine. I won't stop you. But you damn well better have your ducks in a row, 'cause the cavalry's down for the count."

The angel sighed.

"You won't come with us?"

"You know better. I think this whole thing is a bad idea, but the only thing that could make it worse is an anger management problem like mine going with you. Nah, you guys go. I'll just . . . sit here and listen to the rattle of my own loose screws. It'll be fun."

Cas frowned.

"…fine."

Dean patted him on the shoulder, getting up to head back to his room.

"Oh, one more thing," he said, "When you guys do head out, you'd better lock up after yourselves. If you get me."

Before the angel could respond, the Dean turned and walked away, afraid of the look he'd see on his best friend's face.

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	5. Chapter 5

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Five

* * *

With a huff, Sam sat himself down next to the gutted rucksack he'd been packing. It was hard, he realized, to keep his thoughts organized. A familiar pull had taken hold in his chest, making him feel squeezed inside. It was rare, nowadays, that anxiety affected him. He'd been through so much over the years that the bar for 'scary' was set pretty damn high, but with his brother's humanity wearing so visibly thread-bare, he couldn't help but notice his own creeping dread.

As of now, he and Cas were well and truly on the clock.

The angel in question was in the room with him, wandering absent-mindedly along the perimeter, head cocked and tilted up in his own alien way of deep thought. It looked almost as if he were listening to the joints where the wall met the ceiling. Sam knew from experience it was best not to disturb the angel when in this state; however, that didn't stop the young hunter from observing him.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that behind Jimmy Novak's sharp, expressive eyes there resided a thing inhuman. Occasionally, Sam allowed his imagination enough leash to picture what it must be like for the celestial puppeteer to live and move inside a form so different from his own, but Sam's ability to grasp the idea was always fleeting. Castiel's true form was beyond him, and that had always made Sam feel a bit removed when in his presence. He was envious of Dean for that reason. His big brother had always embraced the angel's strangeness, even celebrated it—unlike Sam, he didn't see Castiel as an angel. He saw him as Cas. It's probably why the two of them had always been so close.

Now, though, it was Sam and the angel coming together for Dean's sake, and for once, working with Castiel didn't feel so awkward. The angel's stress was charged on the air, and Sam sympathized with the pain he felt there. The same worry was building inside him, too.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Sam clasped his hands, clearing his throat.

"You almost ready to go, Cas?"

The angel's gaze slid over him.

"I've been waiting for you."

"Oh," Sam looked down, rubbed his thumbs together. He hesitated, "Do you really think this is going to work?"

The angel rocked his head left to right in a way that was both a shrug and a nod. Sam took that for the response that it was—Cas was no more certain in their plan than he was.

"The sooner we leave," he said, "the sooner we find out."

Sam chuckled, taking the hint.

"Alright, alright," the young hunter sighed. Throwing a few last items into his rucksack, he slung the thing over his shoulder and stood, "Let's grab the keys from Dean."

The pair made their way down the corridor to the elder Winchester's room, knocking lightly before receiving a faint invitation to enter. The door groaned on its hinges as Sam poked his head inside. Dean was on the bed, lying with one arm thrown over his eyes. Only one dim light burned in the room. Sam winced internally, afraid he'd woken his exhausted brother from a much needed sleep.

"Hey, I'm, uh, I'm just here to get the keys to the Impala . . . and, you know. Lock up."

Dean grumbled and shifted.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, "keys are on the nightstand. Help yourself."

At his brother's instruction, Sam retrieved the keys, but felt compelled to pause at the hunter's bedside. Looking down at him, Sam noticed how pale and drawn Dean looked; his skin was waxy and beaded with sweat. Seeing him so ill made Sam think twice about leaving.

As if reading his mind, Dean twisted his mouth into a rueful smile and said, "You'd better get a move on before fussy feathers out there has a conniption."

Sam was startled. He looked over his shoulder.

"How did you know Cas was out there?"

Hearing his name, the angel edged inside the door to listen.

Without moving his arm from over his eyes, Dean snorted.

"Are you kidding? I can smell him."

Sam blinked. He glanced at Castiel.

"You can . . . _smell_ angels?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"What, uh, what do they smell like?"

Dean peeked out from under his arm, then retreated again.

"Dryer sheets and Office Max," he said.

Sam's eyebrows went up towards his hairline. He looked at Cas, who shrugged with an "I have no idea if that's accurate" expression on his face. The whole exchange coaxed a smile out of Sam. He adjusted the shoulder strap of his rucksack.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay, Dean?"

His brother chuckled.

"Ain't I always, Sammy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so," the young hunter said, but his voice betrayed his concern. Before he could accrue any more reluctance, Sam finally bid Dean goodbye and walked out of the room. For a few moments, Castiel hung back, and Sam heard some hushed words pass between the angel and his brother. No doubt Dean was telling Cas to bring back his baby brother in one piece, or something similar. Same old, same old.

At last, Castiel joined him, face looking grim, and the pair made their way together to the bunker exit.

* * *

Back in his room, behind his door—now closed and locked—Dean took his arm from his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. In his chest, his heart felt like a baseball, all round and hard and held tight in a fist. It struck against his ribs until his body rang hollow. Without its painful knock, he would have thought he was dead.

He realized he should have felt hungry, but his gut was full of echoes; he knew should have felt tired, but brain kept running red. It was impossible, in his state, to feel human. Already, he could feel bits of his soul falling away, those little black pieces getting lost in the dark. He could feel the smoke, thick like oil, building behind his eyes. With every minute, his vision dimmed.

The mark was winning, his time was running out. The slick pleasure of his own murderous thoughts preoccupied him like something erotic, chilling what remained of his conscience. He hadn't told Sam—he couldn't. His little brother didn't deserve that worry.

But he'd told Cas.

It was the last thing he'd said, before the angel turned to go. His voice caught his friend like a hand on his sleeve.

"Cas," he'd warned, "remember what you promised."

For a moment, the angel was silent, and then said softly, "I remember."

"And you don't hesitate. No matter what you find in this room when you come back, you do what you gotta do. Understand?"

"…yes."

"I mean, full nuclear."

"Full nuclear," Cas affirmed.

"…because it's getting worse, Cas. And that's no joke."

To this, the angel had no reply, but Dean didn't expect one.

"Just take care of Sam," he said, "And take care of yourself, alright? Don't do anything stupid."

Though Dean couldn't see him, he could sense the angel's frown as it pressed into the feel of the room. The hunter understood; Cas didn't want to make any promises he couldn't keep. With his voice hanging heavy, the angel bid him farewell.

"…goodbye, Dean."

"Bye, Cas."

The last thing Dean heard from the angel was the shush-and-click of a deadbolt falling into place. With that, his best friend and little brother were gone. He was alone, and in that solitude, the creep of sadism came on faster.

On his arm, the jaw-bone scar slithered and hissed, sending heat up his bones. A base need pulsed in him, filling him with the drive to hunt and hurt. It was frightening and invigorating. If he hadn't been locked up, if he hadn't been _alone_—

A soft scrabbling interrupted his thoughts.

Startled, Dean sat up in bed. For a moment, he heard nothing more and feared for his own sanity—more so than usual—but then the tiny scratching sounded again. It was a familiar noise, frantic but small, and he found it provoked something deep inside of him. Suddenly, an animal scent reached his noise—like blood and fear—and his mind went blank.

Without remembering the stretch of time between Point A and B, Dean suddenly found himself on his hands and knees, bearing down on a corner of the room. His body was burning, muscles tight, and he felt as if he were looking out of his own eyes from within a deep, smoky room. Sounds hit his ears as if diffused through water. He knew this feeling—he'd lost control.

The reason for his fit was the only other living creature misfortunate enough to have shared space with him—a tiny, quivering field mouse. The terrified creature was frozen stock still, tail backed up to the wall, unable to escape Dean's looming form. Its glittering eyes were black with comprehension; even a thing so small understood the threat of death when confronted with it.

From within the foggy cell of his own body, Dean tried desperately to stop himself doing what the mark intended him to do. He kicked and called and threw himself forward, trying to reach his hands before his hands reached the mouse… but it was no use.

Stone slid down over the windows of his eyes, sealing him away. He beat his fists against it, cursed, then cried, but all to no avail. At last, he slid down, hands over his ears, trapped in the horror show.

There was a squeal pitched like a needle, and the light in Dean vanished.

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Sorry it's been so long since an update. I work for a company where the work is a bit feast-or-famine in volume, and right now is the end of the fiscal year so were are swamped. Please enjoy the following. The next chapter is also completed, so please enjoy this one knowing that the next one will be out soon.

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Six

* * *

"Are you sure this is gonna work, Cas?"

Looking vaguely green in color, Sam held a cloth across his nose and mouth as he watched Castiel work elbow-deep in gore. Normally, the young Winchester had a strong stomach in the face of death and decay, but something about the stench and squelch of this particular corpse had him more nauseous than usual. Or maybe it was the fact that his angel friend was rooting around bare-handed in the body's chest cavity as thought it were a cracked piñata. He couldn't be sure.

Castiel, for his part, was focused beyond distraction. If he heard Sam's question, he chose to ignore it, his mouth pulled to one side in concentration. The spell they meant to cast had a very particular list of ingredients, and he was well on his way to procuring the last required item: the spleen of the witch's thrall.

The angel and hunter had spent the past few hours exhuming the remains of the young woman Rowena had killed, eviscerating her within the confines of an abandoned gardener's hut. But finding the grave and digging up the body had been the easy part. Sorting through her body parts, however . . . well, Sam had left that work to his more stoic companion.

"Got it."

"What?"

The young hunter blanched visibly as he turn back just in time to see a small, fluid-filled sack ripped from the dead girl's abdomen.

"Dude…" he covered his mouth with his hand. The smell was overwhelming, "Aw, man, that's ripe."

"Yes," Castiel nodded, "A very ripe spleen. This is what we needed."

Carefully, the angel placed the organ in a brass basin already swimming with a dark, viscous fluid. Instantly, the concoction began to hiss and steam, filling the air with the sharp musk of witchcraft.

"Okay," Castiel muttered, placing his hands on either side of the bowl, "I'm going to say the incantation. If we did this correctly, I'll be able to follow along the residual tethers left behind by this…_Rowena's_ spell-work. It will lead me to her and let me see where she's hiding."

Sam's brow furrowed.

"And what should I do?"

"Make certain my body isn't moved. And if I say anything, write it down."

Sam loaded two shells into his shotgun and laid the weapon across his knees. He nodded at the angel.

"You got it."

The angel turned back to their hissing potion with only the slightest hesitation. Leaning over the bowl so that the fumes wreathed his face, he began to recite the spell's slow, black words. Watching him, Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair, noting how his friend's eyes lost focus with the passing march of each guttural phrase.

Sam had been warned, of course, of what this spell could do—it was precisely why Castiel had chosen to perform the ritual himself. The magic was too dark, he'd said, for someone as "vulnerable" as Sam to control. It was the kind of magic that pulled at the mind, taking it places it was never meant to go. Looking at Castiel now, the young Winchester could see the truth in what he'd been told. Already, the angel had paled, his body stiff, his pupils yawning wide to reveal a faint glow stirring in their depths. With each verse, the light grew brighter and brighter, as if being pulled from a well, filling the angel's eyes and burning them blue. Then, all at once, the incantation ended.

Castiel collapsed.

"Shit!"

Swearing, Sam dropped his gun and lunged to catch his friend before he hit the ground. Taking him by the shoulders, the hunter pulled Castiel across his legs, searching his face for signs of awareness. There were none. Instead, the angel's eyes sang with a pitched blue light, steady and unseeing. His mind had been projected elsewhere.

The spell was working.

* * *

Feeling thin like thread, Castiel's consciousness raced along a faint, red magic like spark through wire. It was a strange sensation, twisting and new, that seemed to last forever while ending almost before it began. Like a blink taken back, the angel was given a half a second in time before being thrown into a mind clever as a hive.

_Rowena_.

The name was the first thing he read off her synapse. The generalities of her identity and self-perception followed shortly after. He caught feelings of confidence and wit, then the image of flashing red hair, of which he host was quite proud. With pulse after pulse of information running through him, the angel had to pause and find his bearings. It was overwhelming.

_Well, hello. What's this? _

Castiel tensed.

_It seems I have a visitor. _

If the angel could have looked around in panic, he would have. The witch knew he was there.

_Startled you, did I? Oh, don't be so surprised, dear. Did you really think I wouldn't notice you peeping in on me? _

To his dismay, Castiel felt Rowena's mind encroach upon him. She surrounded him, pulling him down. He fought the urge to struggle.

_That's wise of you. To tangle together wouldn't do either of us much good, would it? I'd wager it'd be a wee bit damaging to us both. _

The angel couldn't argue with that. He could feel Rowena's power rolling over him, and it wasn't something to trifle with. Though he knew he could take her on if he needed, the fight would certainly cost him.

_I'm curious. There aren't many alive who could have worked the spell that got you here. Who are you?_

Castiel hesitated.

_I'm an angel_, he replied, more to buy time than anything else, _I've been looking for you._

_Oh, an angel! And what would an angel want with little old me? It certainly can't be that I'm in your good graces, can it? No pun intended._

_Ah, no. _

Castiel was distracted. He was starting to catch glimpses of real-time images. He could see what Rowena was seeing. He wondered if she knew.

_I actually need your help_, he admitted. He figured keeping close to the truth was probably a good idea.

_An angel needs my help? Interesting. Never thought I'd see the day. Tell me; of what service can I be to the heavenly host?_

The images were coming in clearer now. Castiel could see stone walls, flaming sconces, and decorations of the gothic kind. Rowena was walking down a corridor.

_There's a curse_, Castiel went on, _I don't know how to lift it._

_Ah, and you suppose I do. Well, you're probably right. And what would you offer me in exchange for such a service?_

_I could give you…_ the angel wracked his brain, _I could give you—_

"Mother? What are doing wandering the halls at this hour? We've discussed this."

The interaction between Castiel and his host came to a shattering halt. The pair of them shared in a wailing alarm as they rounded a corner to collide with the King of Hell.

"Oh…hello, Fergus."

_Mother?_

Mind racing, the angel took advantage of Rowena's distraction and tore himself violently from her mind. Again, he was stretched thin as a thread, racing backwards along the red magic, same way he'd come.

Like a rock into water, he crashed back into his own body.

* * *

Sam let out a gasp of relief as his friend came alive in his arms. With the ethereal glow dissipating out of his eyes, Castiel scrambled up, holding a hand to his head and another to the wall. Panting, he tried to steady himself.

"Jesus, Cas, are you alright? Wild ride, huh?"

The angel frowned. He looked at Sam strangely, saying nothing. It was unnerving.

"Cas?"

"I have to go," the angel said.

"Go?" Sam echoed, "What do you mean, go? Go where?"

Castiel shook his head.

"You can't come with me."

"I didn't…wait, why? What did you—"

"I'm sorry, Sam."

Before the young Winchester could raise any more protests, Castiel raised a hand to his temple, filling his head with whispers. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask Questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: I was going to wait to post this, but I couldn't resist for one reason: CROWLEY.

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Seven

* * *

Castiel stood waiting in the cross-roads, breathing hot clouds into the night air. The acrid scent of the summoning still hung on his clothes, making him scowl in distaste. The stench was ashy and rotten, like every bit of what he was doing. He hated it.

Restless, the angel stretched out his damaged wings as far as he could behind him, feeling wavelengths of various intensity rifle though the few feathers that remained. He missed his wings—they were special. They weren't like bird wings, as humans thought, since they weren't really meant for flying. They were more like ears, connecting him to the rays of light that raced across the Universe, and the messages they carried. Without them, he felt deafened, cut off from the flow of things. He had to rely on more human senses.

For this reason, Castiel turned slowly where he stood, trying very hard not to allow the demon he'd called to sneak up behind him.

He failed.

"'Allo, love."

The angel jumped, startled by a voice riddled in playful cockney. Spinning, Castiel was met with the sight of one dapper-dressed King of Hell. Crowley, standing stout and bearded and steeped in his usual aura of panache, wore an expression on his borrowed face that blended interest and amusement. He narrowed his agate eyes.

"Castiel," he acknowledged.

The angel lowered his chin.

"Crowley."

The demon took a moment to examine his surroundings, going so far as to stand exaggeratedly on his tip-toes as he peered around and behind Castiel.

"What's this? Flying solo today, are we?"

The angel nodded.

"I'm alone."

Crowley regarded him suspiciously, squinting into his face.

"Huh," he intoned with some surprise, "So you are. Can't tell if this is brave of you or just a whole new level of stupid."

Castiel shifted reluctantly.

"I need your assistance," he admitted. The words made him feel dirty.

Crowley stopped where he stood, planting his feet apart with his hands in his pockets. His eyebrows climbed high on his forehead.

"You're serious?" he asked.

Castiel looked away, setting his jaw.

"Yes."

The King of Hell had himself a good chuckle at that.

"Well," he said, "What a lark! It's ironic, isn't it—an angel coming to a demon for a miracle. Bloody brilliant, actually."

Castiel rolled his eyes.

"It's _Dean_," he muttered.

"Isn't it always with you?"

The angel's face twitched.

"I suppose it has become a pattern, yes."

Crowley smirked.

"What do you want, angel?"

Castiel pulled a scrap of paper from his coat, handing it to the demon.

"There's a witch," he said, "Sam and I were hunting her. We worked a spell together—the spell written there—and I was able to see into her head, to see what she sees. And I saw you, her…son?"

Crowley looked up from the paper he'd been given.

"Ah, yes," he said, "Mother dearest did mention that one of you sky-puppies came a-knocking. Figured it was you. What's your point?"

"My point is that we need her. We believe she's powerful enough to remove the Mark of Cain from Dean. And you know where she is."

Crowley was silent a moment. After some consideration, he put the spell in the pocket of his pea coat before scratching delicately at his nose.

"So you came here to, what?" he asked, "Broker a deal?"

"Yes."

"With me."

"Yes. I…I thought that was obvious."

Crowley paused, mid-gesture. He was incredulous.

"Mate…do you not remember how royally _buggered_ you left me in the wake of our last transaction?"

Castiel hesitated.

"Yes…I do."

"And yet," Crowley went on, "you still have the _gall_ to come and ask me to do another deal with your traitorous tail-end? Are you mad?"

"No. I'm desperate."

"A-ah," the demon nodded, "That's how it is then. You're not just out of _options_, you're out of _time_. Your damsel going dark-side, eh? And now your only choice is to come crawling me, after everything you've done. I should kill you, you know, not help you."

Castiel's lip curled.

"You're being dramatic."

"Ah," Crowley shook his head, "No. See, the thing is, _I_ have flair. _You're_ the dramatist, here. Honestly, between you, me, and the Winchesters, who's the most doomy-gloomy in the bunch? Not me. No sir. In fact, I'm a veritable _fount_ of positivity, compared to you lot."

"You talk too much."

"And you, Castiel, have a voice like the color beige, you know that?"

The angel faced him with a blank expression. Crowley was obliged to clarify:

"It means you're a _bore_, you hapless walnut. Honestly."

The demon shook his head again, looking to the skies for patience.

"You see, the problem with _you_, Castiel, is that you're unreliable. Say what you want about me and all the evil, terrible, no-good things I do, but in the end, you can count on me to be exactly what you expect. You _know_ what I'm about, for better or worse. I keep up _my end_ on every bargain _and_," he held up a finger, "I never lie. But you, you'll swindle a man out of his own pecker and then _screw him with it!_"

Castiel's anger finally boiled. Before he could stop himself, he advanced on Crowley, taking hold of his coat. To his credit, the demon held his ground.

"Are you going to help me, or not?" the angel snapped.

The King of Hell narrowed his eyes. Without looking away, he pried Castiel's fingers from his clothes.

"Fine," he said, "But if we do this, we do it my way. Bartering with the likes of you, I'm going to need some insurance."

Something about the way he said it put a nervous prickling between Castiel's wings. The angel frowned.

"What do you have in mind, exactly?"

But the demon didn't answer. Instead, he tilted his head.

With his mouth curling at its corners, Crowley glanced pointedly into the shadows. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, like eels cued from oil, six men emerged smirking from the tree line, their cuff-linked sleeves heavy with blades made for angel killing. Like dogs, they moved in to encircle Castiel, smiles wide and white, eyes black to the sclera. The angel began to thrum inside his vessel, feeling the borrowed energy at his core condense in fear. Getting low, he flicked his wrist, dropping his own blade into his hand.

"I didn't come here to fight," he said, blue eyes moving quickly from demon to demon. The King of Hell let out a short cluck of amusement.

"Funny," he said, "Neither did I. What say you and I settle this quickly, then?"

Grabbing his lapel, Crowley reached into his coat.

If there hadn't been so many demons to preoccupy him, Castiel might have caught the movement. As it was, the glint hit his peripherals too late, and by the time he turned to stare down the barrel, the revolver in Crowley's hand was already alight with muzzle flash. Before he could react, two bullets tore into him—one, two—and lodged against bone. Castiel's breath left from him, forcing him to his knees, his body doubled over on the pain. The singing burn of his wounds was familiar. Gritting his teeth, he glared up at his attacker.

"_You_," he choked. The thick taste of iron filled his mouth.

"_Me_," Crowley taunted.

Castiel took his hand from his side to look at his reddened palm. As he panted, blood ran between his teeth, falling in blots onto his sleeve. He couldn't stop it.

"What . . . what is this?"

Crowley sighed, sidling towards him. With an infuriating amount of nonchalance, the demon brought the gun barrel to rest along the length of Castiel's jaw, letting the smoke from the chamber curl into his nose.

"Smell," he said.

Reluctantly, the angel did was Crowley told him. He brought some of the smoke into his lungs, tasting it as it went down. Again, there was something familiar about the flavor, so, _so_ familiar…

In an instant, Castiel was made to regret his decision as the smoke turned to acid in his throat. Falling away from Crowley, he wretched painfully onto the ground.

_This burning..._

It came to him. In a fit of realization, the angel pulled his hand into a fist against the asphalt.

_Damn him!_

"_Oil!_" he rasped.

"Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner!"

Crowley's smug grin was almost too much to bear. Castiel glowered up at him from where he lay, watching the demon study his firearm appreciatively.

"Bit of creative genius on my part, really. The bullets themselves, of course, are cast from the metal of angel blades. You already knew that little trick. But coating them in Holy Oil, well, _that_ bit, I'll wager, came as a bit of a surprise."

He looked down at the writhing angel without sympathy.

"Smarts, doesn't it?"

Castiel would have liked to deny it, but his wounds hurt like something electric. He tried to retort, but a spasm of pain ripped through him, making him groan.

Crowley nodded, eyes glittering.

"Thought so."

To make it worse, he kicked the angel onto his back, pressing his heel against the bullet hole in his side. Castiel screwed his eyes shut against the cry that rose in his throat.

"Now," Crowley went on smoothly, "Here's the situation, mate. You're outnumbered seven-to-one, pinned under my boot, and gushing red out two holes I made sure you couldn't fix. Grace or no grace, stolen or otherwise, things don't look good for you. I could—and this should be painfully obvious for you—kill you where you lay. And believe me, I'd very much like to—"

"But?"

"But," Crowley pressed the muzzle of the gun to the angel's chest, "and don't interrupt, something tells me that one Dean Winchester wouldn't be too happy if I offed his favorite bed-warmer. So, since I quite prefer being alive to the stark alternative, I'm going to avoid peeving off the darling little rage monster."

Pointedly, the demon slipped the gun back inside his jacket. Folding his arms over his bent knee, Crowley smiled a smile so saccharine it made Castiel's temper rise.

"So," the King began, "Shall we talk business?"

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask Questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: First, sorry I've been gone for so long. The reason is two-fold: first, I've been very busy; second, I had a terrible time writing this transitional chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Sorry it's a bit short.

P.S.: I found that there are several typos and edits I'd like to make to previous chapters, so please expect that maintenance to be done in the next few days.

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Eight

* * *

_Hey. This is Dean's other, other, _other_ cell. If you're trying to reach me here, you're either Sam, really desperate, or both. Anyway, here comes the beep. You know what to do._

"Fuck!"

Throwing his phone down into the seat beside him, Sam pounded the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. Twelve calls and eight text messages to Dean, about the same amount of each to Cas, and neither one of them were answering. The radio silence had brought Sam to the edge of a nervous fit. He couldn't believe this was happening again. It made him furious.

How _dare_ Castiel pull this kind of dumb-shit move on his own?

One hour ago, the young Winchester had found himself sitting bolt upright in a run-down hotel, with only the clothes on his back, the keys to the Impala in his pocket, and money enough to fill the tank. When he asked at the front desk, he discovered his room had already been paid for, "by some awkward guy named Clarence." The same guy, Sam was told, parked a nice, classic car around back, and then disappeared. A quick search of the area confirmed it—Castiel was nowhere to be found.

After jotting down some basic directions, Sam peeled out of the hotel parking lot and made for the interstate, calling Dean and Cas incessantly along the way. Really, he didn't expect to hear from Cas, but the lack of reply from Dean was frightening. Dean should have answered. Dean was just resting in the bunker, safely locked down in his room, with his phone beside him on the nightstand.

Right?

As mile after mile of misty countryside rolled away behind him, Sam's anxieties continued to mount. He needed Dean, mark or no mark. There's wasn't anyone else left—no Bobby, no Ellen, no Joe, nobody. If Cas was out there doing something stupid—which, experience indicated, he probably was—then Sam needed back-up, and he needed it fast.

After hours of reckless driving, the young Winchester braked to a screeching halt in front of his subterranean home. Barely taking the time to pull the keys from the ignition, he practically threw himself down the stairs on his way to Dean's quarters. When he reached the room in question, his worst fears were confirmed.

Dean was gone.

The door to Dean's room was splintered and buckled towards the center, as though charged by a bull. When Sam tried to push past it, the thing came clean off its hinges, hitting the floor. The young hunter swallowed hard. His brother, it seemed, was worse off than they'd realized.

Inside Dean's room, Sam found a disaster. Everything he could see had either been upturned or destroyed, and the air stank of blood, whisky, and sweat. Sam noticed that several of the weapons his brother kept on display were missing from their cases. His phone, though, was right where Sam remembered—on the nightstand, screen flashing with missed messages.

All of this was disturbing enough, but it paled in comparison to what Sam found in the corner of Dean's room. There, on the floor, amidst scattered herbs and spent matches, was the carcass of a small rodent. The poor creature was barely recognizable for what it was—it seemed its body had been rung out like a wet rag, its blood collected in a little stone bowl. Kneeling down, Sam used a pencil to inspect the gory mess. It was clearly some sort of ritual, but he didn't know what type. Regardless, it set him on pins to know Dean had done something so dark.

Squatting back on his heels, Sam passed a hand over his face. He felt ill and alone, without any hope of finding his brother, or Cas, for that matter. He needed help.

Desperate, Sam took out his phone and let his thumbs hover over the buttons. Dialing was a struggle. His gut told him it was a bad idea, _reminded_ him that he'd promised not involve this person in his problems again, not after what happened last time.

But he couldn't help himself.

The ringing began, and Sam swallowed. After the third chime, a familiar voice answered.

"Sam?"

The young Winchester closed his eyes in defeat.

"Hi, Charlie."

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask Questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	9. Chapter 9

Dear Readers: I love you all, and it's good to be back. I figured another update was in order given that the last one was so short. Cheers.

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Nine

* * *

Jerry Nealen was dusting a bottle of top shelf vodka when the store bell sounded behind him. Without turning around or looking up, he gave a backhanded wave in the general direction of the door.

"Evenin', friend," he said, "Lemme know if I can help you find anythin'."

There was a brief shuffle-drag of boot steps behind him, as if the customer was pausing to take stock. They didn't return Nealen's greeting. That was usual enough, though, and the shop keeper thought nothing of it. A lot of the folks that patronized his shop were quiet types.

Whistling a folksy tune, the old man carried on busily, reaching up to put one bottle back and dust another. He was about to pull down a Smirnoff when he caught a reflection in the amber whisky bottles. What he saw nearly made him drop his product.

_Eyes!_

Nealen spun around.

There, directly behind him, was a young man standing so close that only the width of the counter separated them.

He was covered in blood.

_And his eyes…_

The old man put his back against the shelves. His heart was pounding in his chest, even as he pressed down with his hand to calm it. He forced himself to blink several times to convince himself it had been a trick of the light. Oh, the stranger was there, sure, spattered in red and scary as hell, but his eyes were _green_. They weren't…they weren't…

Nealen didn't think he'd ever been so frightened.

They weren't_ black._

Shaking himself, the old man tried to be sensible. What he'd seen, it was nothing, just shadows in a whisky bottle. He passed a dry tongue over dry lips.

"Shouldn't sneak up on folks like that," he said weakly.

The stranger just stared at him, pale and silent. Nealen looked him up and down. The blood stains aside, something about the man filled him with dread.

"That's a lot of blood," he said, "You hurt, son? You need an ambulance?"

He received no answer. Instead, the young man reached up to scratch some of the dried blood from his face. He didn't look away, and he didn't blink. It was eerie.

Nealen felt cold terror begin to bloom in his stomach. Like ice, it climbed into his throat, squeezing him there until he could hardly speak.

A horrifying thought had occurred to him.

As he asked the question, he felt he already knew its disturbing answer.

"That…that ain't your blood, is it, boy?"

At last, an expression: the corner of the young man's mouth twitched.

"No," he said.

His voice was hoarse and low, like a blade on a grindstone.

The old shop keeper felt faint. He gripped the counter so he wouldn't fall.

"W-what do you want?"

"Whisky. Two bottles. Don't care what kind."

Without taking his eyes off the stranger, Nealen reached back and grabbed two squared bottles from the shelves. He set them out for his customer.

"How much?" asked the grindstone voice.

"Just take 'em."

For a moment, the young man just stared at him. Then, he reached into his coat, pulling out his wallet. For a split second, Nealen caught a glimpse of an ornate handgun, the engraved barrel stuck into the stranger's belt.

The gun was even bloodier than its handler.

With a wink, the young man left a twenty on the counter. Gathering up his purchase, he glanced at the trembling shop keeper's name tag.

"Have a good evening, Jerry," he said, and turned to leave.

The old man held his breath.

As soon as the young man put his hand on the door, Nealen began scrambling for the store phone, intent on calling the authorities. His shaking fingers were about to key in 9-1-1 when he felt the stranger looking back at him. Terrified, the shop keeper whirled to meet his gaze, the phone pressed to his chest. Green eyes bored into the old man's myopic ones, cold and soulless.

"You're not going to call the police, Jerry."

Nealen swallowed hard, rallying his courage.

"L-like hell I ain't!" he said, then hesitated, "Why shouldn't I?"

The young man let his hand fall away from the door.

"Because if you do," he said calmly, "I will kill you. And when the police come, I will kill them, too."

It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of fact.

Nealen hiccupped in fear. He stood rooted to the floor as the stranger sidled back up to the counter. With a look of hypnotic authority etched on his face, the young man reached out his bloodied hand. Nealen, without knowing why he did so, dropped the phone into it.

After removing its batteries and pocketing them, the stranger set the cordless back on the counter.

"You got family, Jerry?" he asked.

Thinking fast, Nealen shook his head vigorously. His denial coaxed a smile through a crack in the young man's expression. He nodded towards a cork board on the back wall.

"There's a picture of you with your wife and kids behind your right shoulder."

The old man glanced back at the photo. His legs were shaking.

"D-don't you even look at 'em," Nealen stammered. He was trying—and failing—to sound threatening, "Don't you even _think_ about 'em!"

The stranger gave him a side-long look. He was amused.

"Relax, pal. I'm not hurtin' anyone that don't deserve hurtin'. Just wanted to give you a compliment. You're a lucky man."

He knocked his knuckles against the countertop and pointed a finger at the old man.

"Be good, Jerry," he said, "Be good, and you'll never have to see me again."

With a parting smirk, the young man backed away, a whisky in each hand, before shouldering his way out the door and into the night.

He disappeared.

Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty. Once he was sure the stranger was gone, old Jerry Nealen slid to the floor, said a prayer, and sobbed for breath.

He closed up early that night.

* * *

With a contented sigh, Dean leaned back against his hideout's crumbling walls, drinking deeply from a new bottle of jack. It was the first of two handles he'd picked up from a corner store at the edge of town, some run-down mom-and-pop joint called "Nealen Liquor." When he thought about it, the name made him smirk.

Nealen Liquor.

_Kneel an' lick 'er. _

_Heh._

He'd figured, when he saw the sign, that the guy running the place must have known _exactly_ what he was doing when wrote _that one_ on the lease, but after meeting him, Dean wasn't so sure. He recalled the poor bastard's shaking hands and sheet-white expressions. Apparently, Jerry Nealen was a bit more innocent than his product line would indicate.

That, or maybe he'd never had a bloody psychopath troll his store for bottles of eighty proof.

Could be either, really.

Dean looked up through a busted skylight and smiled. The stars were out, and he felt alright. Better than he had in a long time, in fact. It had taken some work, but he'd finally, _finally_ gotten the mark to shut…the hell…_up_.

Damn thing was like a dog; he had to feed it.

Belching, the hunter crossed his legs over the two dripping corpses he was using as a foot stool. Blood bubbled out of their mouths, running onto the floor. Dean winked into their lifeless faces.

Yeah, he felt fine.

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask Questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** Thank you everyone for reading! It's a pleasure knowing you guys are enjoying the story. To those of you that comment and message me, please continue to do so. I love hearing your thoughts and answering your questions. Enjoy!

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Ten

* * *

At precisely three in the morning, the Demon King of Hell materialized on a small plot of land outside Lebanon, Kansas, with a red-haired witch on his arm. As they straightened their clothes in the shadows, the pair was joined by three others: two demons, dressed head to toe in black, and a bloody, trench-coated angel, who hung by his arms between them. Together, the small party surveyed the crumbing structure that stood before them.

Rowena spoke first, tossing her hair.

"You're sure this is the place, Fergus?" she asked.

Crowley chuckled.

"It had better be," he said, "Or else I know a certain tracker demon that won't be long for this world, under or otherwise."

"And you're sure he's inside?"

The demon king turned to give his mother an admonishing look.

"_Yes_, mother," he said, "I'm sure. But if you won't take my word for it, why don't you ask the angel?"

The witch raised her eyebrows and laughed.

"'Ask the angel'?" she echoed, "Well, perhaps I might've if you hadn't bled the poor creature half to death. He's barely conscious."

"Oh, stop it, he's had worse. Here," Crowley turned to Castiel. The angel's eyes were closed as he lolled between his straining handlers, his body nearly dead-weight. The demon king grabbed him by the throat, giving him a shake and a slap.

"Oi! Wake up. This ain't the Four Seasons, mate."

Castiel groaned. Slivers of blue appeared under his eye lids. With what little strength he had, he glared at his captor.

Crowley was smug.

"There he is," he crooned, "'Allo, kitten. Why don't you be a good lad and assure my dear mother that our mark's in yonder castle, eh?"

Castiel's gaze drifted off in the direction of the building in question. For a moment, his expression faded, as if his mind were far away.

Then he swallowed.

"…he's there," he said.

Crowley looked back at Rowena.

"There. You see? Have a little faith in the crown, would you?"

The witch shrugged.

"Well, that's fine, then," she said, "But supposin' he's…you know…as he was before. What then?"

"What, you mean if he's a demon?"

"Aye. I don't suspect you'd want to tangle with him in any case."

"Of course not," Crowley snorted, "That's what lover boy is for, among other things. He goes in first."

The demon turned to his underlings.

"You two: take the angel and shove him through the front door, then get back here quick as you can. That is, if you know what's good for you."

The pair of spawn exchanged nervous looks, but obeyed, disappearing with Castiel in tow. A moment later, they returned, looking white.

The King of Hell gave them each an appraising look.

"You saw him?" he asked.

The two demons just nodded. From their expressions, it was obvious Dean Winchester's reputation for rabid slayings hadn't escaped them. Honestly, Crowley couldn't blame them for acting a bit shaken.

Rowena, however, didn't seem bothered at all. Completely at ease, she sat herself primly on a stump.

"Now what?" she asked, flicking leaves from her dress.

Crowley rolled his eyes.

"Now," he answered, "We wait."

* * *

Castiel made it barely three yards inside the building before collapsing.

It was a strange sensation, when his knees gave out. Instead of falling, the angel felt a rush, as if the ground were coming up to meet him. The impact was jarring.

Dizzied, the angel lay unmoving, trying to breathe through the fire in lungs. Black gaps drifted in front of his eyes, as if his vessel weren't getting enough air. He tried to breathe deeper, but couldn't. The pain was too much.

Shifting in the rubble, Castiel did his best to look up. When he did, he saw Dean Winchester.

The hunter sat in eerie quiet, framed against a far wall. His body was streaked in moonlight and shadow. From where he lay on the floor, Castiel stared at him, and despite the darkness, he could tell that Dean was staring back.

Without getting up, the hunter drank off a bottle, cushioning his head with his arm.

"That you, Cas?" he called.

Castiel tried to answer, but couldn't, his throat catching on the dust. He began to cough.

Deal tilted his head.

"Not doin' so hot, huh, pal?"

He rocked his foot nonchalantly atop a pair of dead demons, making no effort to rise. Watching him, a chill settled at the base of Castiel's wings. He could feel it, even from here: something about Dean was terribly, terribly wrong.

Holding a hand to his side, the angel forced himself to his knees.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

"You're bleeding," he said.

"… yes."

The hunter sat up straighter.

"What from?"

Castiel pulled himself against a pillar and leaned his head against it. He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up.

"Angel bullets," he answered. He could feel blood running out the corner of his mouth.

"_Angel bullets_," Dean echoed, "Hm."

He flicked a bottle cap off his thumb and caught it in the air. After examining it a moment, he used it to seal off his whisky. Setting the fifth at his side, the hunter got slowly to his feet, shaking a finger at the angel.

"You know what's funny?" he asked, "There's only one sum-bitch I know of that's out there runnin' 'round with angel bullets."

Castiel hesitated. Dean narrowed his eyes at him, sauntering closer. His gait was leisurely, and yet somehow, he still managed to move like a predator.

The angel was unnerved, his vessel flooding with the impulse to get as far away from his friend as possible, but he couldn't. He could barely move at all. Castiel was forced to lean his head back as Dean came to stand over him, looking down at the angel with flat, green eyes.

"How'd you find me, Cas?" he asked, his voice soft but dangerous.

Castiel swallowed hard.

"It's complicated."

Dean turned his head a fraction.

"Complicated?" he said, "Nah. Not buyin' it."

Castiel felt the sudden urge to recoil, but it came too late. With serpentine speed, Dean grabbed his coat and dragged him up, shoving his back against the pillar.

"Try again," he said, with the same deadly calm.

The angel did try again. Wincing at the hunter, he fought for enough breath to give him a better answer, but failed. Something about the way Dean had moved him had jolted his wounds. Exhaling was easy, but each time he tried to breathe in, it became harder and harder. Castiel gripped his friend's wrist.

"Dean…" he gasped.

For a moment, it seemed the angel's struggles were lost on Dean. With his chest burning, Castiel searched the hunter's eyes with darkening vision, desperate to find a sliver of his friend's true self somewhere in their hollow depths. He was teetering on the edge of consciousness when he was finally rewarded.

Blinking, Dean frowned, looking as if a red mist were clearing from his mind. As Castiel lost his grip on his arm, the young man seemed to realize what he was doing. Grief wrote itself all over his face.

Cursing, he loosened his hold, lowering Castiel gently to the ground. The angel was wheezing, pink foam draining from his mouth.

Dean set his jaw.

"Cas, I swear to god," he murmured. He didn't continue.

Working fast, the hunter pulled up the angel's bloodied shirt, inspecting his wounds. One of the holes in his side was starting to bubble.

Dean paled.

"You're lung's collapsing," he said, "Can't you heal?"

Castiel shook his head, eyes closing.

"_Bullets…_" he whispered. It was all he could manage.

Dean was alarmed.

"They're still inside you?"

The angel nodded.

The hunter sat back on his heels, pulling his hand across his mouth.

"Fuck," he said.

Castiel watched as Dean seemed to weigh all available options, of which there were very few. When he finally raised his gaze to meet the angel's, his expression was dark with reluctance. Slowly, he pulled a knife out of his belt, turning it carefully in his hands.

The angel knew without being told what Dean was going to have to do, and the young man knew he knew it.

Castiel began to tremble.

He and the hunter looked at the knife, then at each other. Dean's face was pained as he began to lean forward, moved to cover the angel's mouth.

"I'm sorry, Cas," he said.

The angel just shut his eyes, willing himself not to scream as Dean slid the knife into his side.

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask Questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note:** I'm back, bitches! Why am I calling you bitches? Because I'm channeling my inner Charlie. I apologize for the long delay, but a combination of terrible writer's block, the break between SPN seasons, and a generally high level of adult-type business precluded this chapter from being written any sooner. Still, I hope most of my readers are able to rekindle their interest in this fic and enjoy the next several chapters. As always, I love to hear you guys spin theories, ask questions, or drop a note on the things in the story that do or don't work for you, so feel free to PM or Review – I respond to most, if not all.

Without further ado, please enjoy the latest chapter in SoHSoC!

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Eleven

* * *

With his denim collar pulled up around his ears, Sam hitched his hip higher up onto the hood of the Impala, feeling the fading warmth of the engine block under his rear. Squinting his eyes at a distant pair of bobbling headlights, he shivered, pressing his hands deeper into his pockets.

The night had gone from cold to colder almost as quickly as it had gone from bad to worse, but he didn't feel like waiting inside—it was too empty in there. Something about the vacant bunker was more chilling than the breezy outdoors, so after making his desperate call from the floor of his brother's demolished bedroom, he'd dragged himself back outside to watch for approaching cars.

The pair of headlights he'd spied in the distance did a sudden bounce-dip-bounce before steadying. As they crept forward, the lights began to shine brighter as they blinked between naked trees.

Someone had turned up the dirt road towards the bunker.

Sam straightened, pushing off the car. For a wild moment, he wondered if maybe it was Dean returning home, wild-eyed and felonious, in some poor sap's hotwired junker, a bag of burgers in one hand, a pie in the other. Really, though, he knew better.

His phone started to buzz in his pocket. He glanced at the ID before answering.

"Hey, Charlie."

A thin voice petered through the sour connection.

"Hey, there, Samalot. Just wanted to confirm—you don't have any, like, booby traps set up on this driveway to doom, do you? No landmines or, or pits with spikes for me to worry about?"

Sam couldn't help but chuckle.

"Ah, no," he said, "No booby traps. Potholes, yes, and they're hell on your suspension, but I promise they don't have spikes in them."

"Oh good," Charlie signed, "I'm comin' to you then. Hey, come outside, would you? I don't feel like waiting around in these spooky woods for you to answer the door."

"I'm already out here waiting, right next to the Impala. Have been for a while, actually."

"Oh," there was a hiss of static, "Okay. Here I come. Standby."

With a click, she hung up. Sam pocketed his phone again and took a few steps down the road.

He heard Charlie's car well before he could make out its shape.

Well, _well_ before.

Once, years ago, he and Dean had been parked at a gas station eating gut-rotting tacos when a cobbled-together jalopy rolled stuttering up to a pump. The old junker's tail pipe coughed clouds of black smoke while the engine screamed for a new belt. The frame, it looked like, was held together by nothing more than duct tape and back-country faith. Sam remembered, clear as day, his big brother turning to him with a mouthful of taco and saying, "If that thing were a dog, I'd take it out back and shoot it."

Anything making a noise like _that_, he'd said, needed to be put out of its misery.

Sam winced as the sound of grinding gears and old brake pads screeched up the dirt road.

Whatever automotive nightmare Charlie was driving, it certainly qualified for a Dean Winchester mercy killing.

There were a few cringe-worthy thuds as Charlie tried—and failed—to negotiate the craterous potholes that dotted the dirt access road, then the headlights rounded a sharp bend and illuminated the bunker entrance. When the beams swung towards him, Sam raised a hand to shield his eyes, squinting through his fingers.

He had to laugh.

Charlie was driving an old, _old_ Volkswagen Beetle. The thing looked pre-WWII era, though Sam knew that was probably an exaggeration. It was a patchwork of replacement parts—one red door, one white, a blue roof, a sandblasted hood—and it looked as if a sharp kick would knock it to pieces.

He shook his head as it watched it totter up the driveway, gravel pinging in its rusted wheel wells.

Charlie stuck a hand out the window to wave at him as she parked. The Volkswagen's engine chuffed once, twice, and a third time before dying with a congested splutter.

Walking over, Sam grabbed the top of the driver's side door as Charlie shouldered it open, grimacing against the sharp keen of rusted hinges.

"Geez, Charlie," he said as his friend clambered out of the car, "You're willing to ride around in this death trap but the woods have you spooked? You might want to reorder your phobias."

The hacker raised an eyebrow as she walked around the front of her car.

"I can handle a clunker," she said, popping the VW's hood—or rather, the trunk, since the car was so old the engine was still in the rear.

"Blow-outs, overheated radiators, sticky transmissions; I can handle those things," she went on, "But, no offense, you and your brother are total monster magnets. The supernatural freak-show sort of follows you guys around, and I didn't want to be waiting alone on your doorstop if it chose to come a-knocking."

Sam shrugged.

"Fair point," he admitted.

With a huff, Charlie hauled a canvas rucksack out of her trunk. Adjusting the strap across her chest, she turned and looked up at him. For a moment, she didn't say anything. She just smiled. Then that smile started to wobble.

"It's good to see you, Sam," she said, "Circumstances aside."

Sam took a deep breath, and then let it out all at once. He suddenly felt upset again. The reality of why his friend had driven as far as she had to be standing in front of him now dragged his heart down into his feet.

"Yeah, it's good to see you, too, Charlie."

He stooped, pulling her into a firm hug. Without meaning to, he held onto her longer than usual, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she stoutly refused to be the first to let go. When they finally pulled apart, Charlie put it into words.

"Bad nights need good hugs," she said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

"Yeah," Sam agreed shakily. He pulled a hand across his mouth. His eyes felt wet.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam," Charlie assured him. She patted her rucksack, "I have a few ideas on how to find him."

Sam blinked rapidly.

"Yeah?" he asked, "'Cause I can't, uh… I can't think of any tracking spells, or ways to scry for him, and even if Cas were here, he's warded against angels."

Charlie's smile twisted a little.

"You know there _are_ ways to track people down without voodoo and hocus pocus, right? I mean, cops do it all the time. It's called 'Good 'Ol Fashioned Detective Work.'"

"Right…" Sam was skeptical, but nodded, clearing his throat, "So what, uh, what do we have to do?"

"Well first," Charlie threaded her arm through his and steered him towards the bunker, "We go inside. It's colder than a witch's titty out here. Then you're gonna show me wear to set up shop, and you're gonna put on an _enormous_ pot of coffee because my caffeine levels are way, _way_ too low to handle a crisis of this magnitude. And, while you're doing all that, you're going to tell me everything."

"Everything?"

"_Everything_."

* * *

**Reviews are Loved.**

**Critiques are Encouraged.**

**Always feel free to ask questions.**

**~DWC**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: Well, the plan was to have this be a multi-POV chapter that got us through to where everybody ends up in the same room. Turns out, though, that if I went that route, this chapter would be absurdly longer than the rest, which unsettled me. So, I'm going to divide it up. Good news is, that means faster updates. Bad news is, more suspense—but maybe that's not that bad.**

**Anyway, please enjoy. Special thanks to gr8read and deadone1013 for their generous comments—it's been fun watching you make your way through the story. **

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Twelve

* * *

"_Two-thousand, two hundred and fifty-eight days, sixteen hours, and thirty-one minutes." _

Under the slatted light of his rundown hideaway, Dean rolled a shoulder, closed his eyes, and let his head flinch sharply to the left before opening them again, trying his best to ignore the familiar voice that curled into the shell of his ear.

It wasn't easy.

"_You know, I really didn't think we'd last this long. Talk about keeping clean and serene, huh?" _

Dean knew, of course, there was never a _good_ time to go crazy.

Dean _also_ knew that if he absolutely _had_ to pick a time to lose it, it certainly wouldn't be while he could feel his closest friend's arterial pulse thumping against the knife blade he was turning delicately in his side.

"_Do the math and that's more than…hell, that's more than six years. It's been six friggin' years since we got to dig around inside somebody. "_

Acid rinsed against the back of the hunter's throat, forcing him to swallow. He blinked his eyes again, hard, trying to blot out the shadowy figure pacing in his peripherals.

It didn't work.

"_And hey!"_ the voice went on, _"who'd've thought it'd be _Cas_, huh? First day back in the saddle, and we're sticking our razor in an angel. But that's just kismet, ain't it? Especially since he's the one who dragged us off the bandwagon the first time."_

Dean looked up from his knife work to glance at Cas. Half of the angel's face was hidden by the hand he had had pressed over his mouth, but his eyes were still visible and were vivid with pain. Rimmed in red, they stared sightlessly out of their darkened orbits, irises stark-blue around constricted pupils.

It was a raw look, one Dean wasn't sure he'd ever seen the angel wear before. It made him feel sick.

Lowering his eyes again, the hunter chewed the inside of his mouth until it bled, fighting to keep his hand steady as he slid his knife-point underneath Cas's rib, chasing the bullet lodged behind it. When the angel jerked and cried out against his hand, Dean tried very, _very_ hard not to think about it. Setting his jaw, he bore down more heavily on his friend in an attempt to hold him still.

Cas groaned, eyes closing, and the hunter felt compelled to apologize.

"I don't wanna be doin' this," he blurted, but didn't know who it was he wanted to convince.

A harsh bark of laughter hit him from behind, like a smack to the back of the head.

"_Oh, yeah you do!"_ mocked the shadow. With long, slow steps, it circled around to stand in front of the hunter. Dean kept focused on the task of coaxing the bullet back through the hole it had made in Cas's ribs. He refused to look up or even breathe a word to the thing as it stood over him, but he couldn't help shaking his head in denial.

The shadow noticed, laughed again, and crouched down to the hunter's level.

"_Alright, alright,"_ it placated, _"Maybe you really _don't_ wanna be doin' this, but hey—I do. And I _am_ you, so…"_

"You—" Dean's head jerked up before he could stop himself. He sneered at the thing that taunted him, barely managing to quell the skittering fear he felt when he saw its face.

"'_Me,' what?_" the creature prompted.

The hunter swallowed, unnerved.

There, staring at Dean from behind Cas's right shoulder, was his own hellish dead-ringer. The _thing_—his copy, or double, or whatever the best word was—wore the hunter's same clothes and spoke in his voice, but the lines of its face were twisted around its black, pitted eyes and the white, carrion-eating grin that stretched from ear to ear.

"You're not me," Dean answered finally, "and I _certainly_ ain't you. Hell, you ain't even _real_, you twisted sonovabitch, so you can just fuck right off."

Before he looked away again, the hunter saw the thing's smile widen further.

"_Nah,_" it said, "_This is too much fun._"

Dean shook his head again and turned back to Cas, speaking softly to the angel as he watched a bit of metal appear in his wound.

"Almost," he mumbled, "just hang in there…"

The angel's breaths were leaving him as quick, shallow moans, and Dean began to worry that his help had come too late. Then, in the next instant, there was a leaden _plink_ as the spent slug fell from Cas's side onto the floor. Both hunter and angel exhaled sharply.

Carefully withdrawing his knife, Dean sat back on his haunches and watched as his friend's body ebbed tension. When he was sure Cas would be able to stay quiet, he peeled his hand off his mouth, his palm coming away sticky with blood.

Without warning, the angel rolled towards him.

"Jesus, Cas," Dean cussed, steadying the angel as he choked up pink fluid onto the floor. At first, the coughs sounded so painful and so wet they made Dean's hair stand on end, but after the second or third fit, he noticed that the angel's breath no longer gargled in his chest, and that his gasps were more recuperative than desperate. To confirm, he lifted Cas's shirt again and saw that the worst of his two wounds was beginning to close.

"_You know that's, uh…that's only round _one," Dean heard his doppelganger say. His let gaze flicker upwards to where the socket-eyed creature stood leaning its shoulder against the pillar, a hooked smirk playing at the corners of its mouth. The hunter felt a wild urge to jump up and sink a blade into his hallucination's stolen face—for all the good that probably _wouldn't_ do—but decided he couldn't, not with Cas starting to come around. He didn't want the angel asking questions.

Instead, he gathered his friend to him, maneuvering him gingerly until his back and shoulders were propped up more comfortably against an upturned bench.

With a look of relief reshaping the angled planes of his face, Cas let his head drop back against the wood, one arm wrapped bracingly around his middle. He drew in a few more steadying breaths before cracking open one blue eye. Looking at Dean, he spoke haltingly:

"Not usually one for…expletives, but…" he grimaced, "_Fuck_."

Dean gave a half-hearted chuckle, running a bloodied hand through his short hair.

"You said it, buddy. But hey, uh," he hesitated, glancing up again at the sneering thing that looked just like him. His double cocked an eyebrow expectantly, and Dean had to physically shake himself in order to finish his thought.

"Cas, I'm sorry, man," he went on, "you've still got another one of those things inside you. I've got to dig it out."

But the angel shook his head.

"Didn't hit…anything vital," he explained, "Have to…wait. Heal first."

Dean sat back.

"Yeah, okay," he said, trying not to sound too relieved. At the same time, he felt a zing of disappointment run straight up his spine. He couldn't place its origin until he heard his dead-ringer scoffed irritably.

"_Well that's no fun_," it said, rolling its neck until it popped. Shoving away from its place against pillar, it began circling them again with all the ugly glee of a hyena. Dean followed the hallucination with his eyes until it sauntered out of sight behind him. Unable to stop himself, he cursed it again.

"Bastard."

"What?"

Dean's attention snapped back around and was suddenly caught fast by two very alert, very blue eyes. Swallowing, the hunter stiffened, noting the glint of white light that chased the rims of Castiel's irises. He knew that look.

Inside his vessel, the angel was stirring.

Dean also knew what Cas's question would be before it was asked, and he held his answer at the ready, flat expression and all.

"Who are you…talking to?"

"No one."

"_Ah—too fast_," snorted his double.

It was right.

Cas narrowed his eyes. Holding his broken ribs tighter, he sat up straight.

"I am…a terrible liar," he panted, "but you… are worse."

"Cas…"

"No."

Little word, big meaning. A tendon pulsed in Dean's jaw as he clenched his teeth together, understanding exactly all the things his friend both had and hadn't said.

_No_, you will not deflect.

_No_, you will not lie.

And _no_, if you try to lie, you will not succeed.

Well, Dean didn't care. He felt a bubble of anger rise up in his mind and burst, the first in a simmering pan about to boil.

"Oh, and _what_?" he snapped defensively, "You think you're the only one here who's got questions? How about we start with what the hell happened to _you_, Cas, and—and why the fuck you're even _here_?"

The words came out more sharply barbed than he intended, and the hunter winced inwardly when he saw a look of hurt play briefly over his friend's face. He knew that Cas deserved answers, but Dean had none to give. There were simply too many things that demanded explanations, and now just wasn't the time.

Besides, there weren't words for any of this. There would be no making sense of his rolling gaps in memory, when everything went black; there would be no illustrating the blood-rich tableau that hung behind his eyes; there would be no telling Cas about the wall that came down inside his head when the mark took hold.

But, more than anything, there would be no telling the angel that _when_ the wall came down, that _after_ he beat his fists against it, cursed it, and cried out to no avail—that _when_, at last, he fell to his knees, hands over his ears, trapped in the horror show, he'd turned around to find that he _wasn't alone_.

He heard his doppelganger start to cackle.

"_What's the matter, Dean?_" it asked, "_Don't want to tell the brave little feather duster about all the good times we've had knockin' around inside your noggin?_"

The hunter gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut, then jumped when the thing spoke again, this time hardly an inch from his ear.

"_Or maybe that's not it_," it hissed, "_Maybe you're just too afraid to admit to him that you're completely cracked._"

The hunter let his head flinch left as if he'd been burned. He caught a quick glance of Cas, saw the angel give him a pained look.

Like he knew.

"Dean…" he started.

"Cas, I can't."

And he couldn't. He heard the searching tone in Cas's voice but knew he couldn't let the angel find what he was looking for. Dean couldn't even look him in the eye. He couldn't give him answers, or explanations—he didn't know how to put the words together.

But instead of pressing him, Cas just rustled in his canvas coat and said:

"I know."

Abruptly, Dean's mind went white.

* * *

**Reviews are loved. **

**Critiques are encouraged.**

**Always feel free to ask questions.**

**~Dances-with-Cacti**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: WELL. This chapter was an absolute nightmare. I have never had a more difficult time put ideas into words than I did here. Hopefully it turned out alright - I feel that it is probably exactly "okay" as far as quality. The best I can hope for is that it makes sense. Please let me know what you think. The story advanced quickly from here on out, so hold onto your pantaloons. For those of you who like Sam and Charlie, you'll see them in the next chapter!**

**Quick note on spelling/grammar errors: I checked. I did. I don't see any now, but I will inevitably find a million when I come back and read this over again. Please excuse them, or better yet, let me know if you find one so I can correct it.**

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

Castiel was no stranger to insanity.

That's why Dean looked so familiar.

The angel felt a clammy wave of empathy roll over him as he watched the hunter tic and flinch, his gaze flickering to-and-fro in pursuit of the black things that shivered in the corner of his eye. Castiel heard him muttering, saw him dip a shoulder as if shrugging away from something—something that wasn't really there.

Flashes of memory wobbled like a tossed coin in the angel's brain, trading sides faster than he could follow. Visions of Sam's hell—_cage bars, meat hooks, and unquenchable red flames_—tumbled forward into a memory of a black lake that boiled and sucked with primordial things. He remembered the leeches and the burrowing flies—he remembered the worms that nested in his brain, poisoning his mind with ichors and whispers until he was persuaded that even a little sparrow like him could play god.

Oh no, Castiel was _certainly_ no stranger to insanity.

The things he'd done in pursuit of Purgatory had left him touched—_blighted_. He'd torn apart Sam, Heaven, and himself, and in the end, he paid for his sins with soundness of mind.

Those horrors were not easily forgotten.

The angel swallowed as he remembered.

Lucifer and the Leviathan haunted him long after their red-and-black taint had drained off his core. For months, he'd seen them, felt them stab into his center and gum up his mind. He'd picked holes in his arms because he'd seen beetles beneath his skin; he'd clawed into the back of his neck because there was a beehive between his vertebrae. When Meg—the black-eyed-woman-in-white—shot him up with ten times the lethal dose of morphine ("_For the pain_," she'd said, too gently for a demon), he'd seen Satan, and the Devil had pushed him down into a field of poppies and punished him in ways only he could.

It had taken Castiel a long time to make peace with the flowers after that. The beetles and the bees, too.

Seeing Dean suffer now, the angel found himself wishing—mournfully—that he'd been more open with the hunter all those years ago. He wished he'd told Dean what it had been like, being a prisoner inside a mind bent on tormenting itself. Maybe, if he had, the hunter would have been more honest with him now. Maybe, if he had, Dean wouldn't have lied and said _No one_ when Castiel asked him _Who are you talking to?_

More than anything, the angel just wanted Dean to know that he understood.

As he watched the hunter scrub his blade clean on his shirt sleeve, Castiel tightened his hand against his bloodied side. He could still feel the second bullet burning in his flesh. He wondered, dimly, if Dean would ever get the chance to remove it. He thought about the demons waiting outside.

There wasn't much time.

"Dean…" he began, intent on saying _something_. He just wasn't sure what. He wanted to ask Dean again about his hallucinations, but he knew the hunter wouldn't answer. Castiel didn't blame him. After all, Dean had asked some pointed questions of his own—questions with answers the angel had sworn not to provide: "_What the hell happened to _you_, Cas, and—and why the fuck are you even _here?"

Castiel looked down at his side and shifted, grimacing as he felt blood wash between his fingers.

If he told Dean the truth, all of this would be for nothing.

Dean would never let him go through with it.

The angel shuddered, suddenly, at the thought about what he'd done—and about what the hunter's reaction would be when he found out. A sense of foreboding tightened around his throat like a noose.

Then, beside him, Dean jerked and dropped his head, shying away from some malicious, unseen thing. On his arm, the mark of Cain glowed red, a hot and ugly grin. Castiel's fear subsided into resignation.

_It doesn't matter what he thinks—this is worth it. _

"Cas," he heard Dean say, "I _can't_."

The agony was plain in his voice.

"I know," the angel replied, and he did. It wasn't just words. Castiel understood because he _couldn't_, either. All he had was a vague sense that something was ending—that some hourglass, somewhere, had run dry of sand.

_Point of no return._

Loss opened up a hole in his chest, and the angel felt panic. Without knowing why, he was gripped by the urge—the _need_—to reach out to Dean and touch him, as if the young man were about to disappear. Swallowing hard, Castiel raised an arm, his canvas coat rustling, and laid a hand lightly in Dean's hair.

The angel was allowed only a moment's contact with the soft, troubled warmth of Dean's soul before something black and toothy lashed out of the glow and bit him.

The Castiel's head cracked back as the _thing_ sank it's fangs into his brain. For an instant, everything flashed to a blinding white—then came the memories.

The flow of images was torrential.

In rapid succession, he saw himself and Sam in a dimly lit room, grim looks on their faces; he saw cracks in the ceiling crossed by shadow and yellow lamp-light; he saw the back of Dean's arm as he heard a door go _shush-click_, locked from the outside; he saw a rodent in a corner, cowering in fear, grey death in its eyes.

He saw a wall.

The stone came down with mountainous force, sealing him away in a memory that wasn't his own.

He was forced to relive it anyway.

* * *

_The room was hewn from stone, and the walls wept blood and sweat. Fleshy clots coagulated in the cracks, like mildew, while nodes of pus mushroomed from the mortar. Mucus-thick, the stinking fluids eked downward until they mingled on the floor, slickening the flagstones and moistening The Pit._

_The smell was horrendous. _

_In a dark corner, Dean sat hunched behind his knees, his head wild-haired and bloody from where he held it in his hands. Rocking back and forth, the hunter stared at the big stone wall, eyes wide and watering and rimmed with spidery red. _

_There were claw marks in the stone. _

"_I tried," he blurted, his words sobbed more than said, "I tried. I _swear_ I tried." _

_In the center of the room, The Pit belched and sucked, like a large intestine laughing. Drawing his legs in closer, Dean shut his eyes, pushing thick tears off his eyelids. He heard The Pit swallowing, and gagged._

"_I _tried_…" _

"_You failed." _

_Dean could not curl any further into the wall, but he tried. _

"_I _tried_."_

_A cold hand slid into his hair._

"_I know." _

_The fingers writhed like eels on his scalp._

"_Look at me, Dean." _

_He wanted to say no, but he couldn't. Shaking and sweating and bleeding from his lips, Dean opened his eyes and looked up at himself. _

_The smile on his doppelganger's face was beautifully white, cheshire and chiseled with pointed, feral canines. The thing's eyes were a pair of yawning, black sockets. _

"_I know you tried," it repeated, taking Dean's hands gently from his brow, holding them up so he could see, "Just look what you did." _

_Dean looked. Blood was pooling in the webs between his fingers, dripping from the split fingernails that hung painfully off their nail-beds. _

"_This ain't any good, is it, Dean? Just look what you did to yourself."_

_The thing's smile was too wide, creeping too high on its face. It looked like someone had put hooks in its lips and was pulling._

_Dean moaned as he watched its head snap grotesquely to the right, turning on its neck until the bones crunched. _

"_Why do you keep fighting me, huh?" it asked. Only its mouth moved in its sideways face. "Why scratch at the wall? I made it to keep you safe." _

_Listening to it speak was unsettling. The thing sounded just like him, but the speech patterns were off, like a bad impersonation._

_Dean trembled._

"_You _trapped_ me here!" he accused._

"'_Trapped?'" it echoed. Its head spun wildly on his neck, turning as far to the left as it had to the right, all while wearing that same sickle smile. _

"_You're not trapped here, Dean," it said. It turned his eyeless sockets on The Pit. "Just go through there, that's the way out. Down to the bottom and out the other end, easy as pie. You'll be better than before—better and so, so much stronger. That's a promise, Dean. I'd never lie to you."_

_Its hands tightened around Dean's bloodied wrists._

"_Come on," it said sweetly, "Lemme help you." _

_Dean suddenly felt himself being dragged towards the center of the room. Panicked, he looked between his grinning, eyeless dead-ringer and the pulsing maw in the floor. As he watched, The Pit flung out a damp, meaty stump that lapped at the flagstones like a tongue._

"_W-wait" he stammered, "Wait…stop! Get off—!"_

_His doppelganger gripped him tighter._

"_Aw, c'mon. Just try it, Dean. Just once more. I know last time you didn't like it much, but this time'll be different."_

"_No!" Dean thrashed, kicking out at the thing, his anger curling on the tail of bald fear, "Get the fuck off me, you sonovabitch! I'm not going in there!" _

_In his flailing, he managed to land a blow on his dead-ringer's chin, snapping its head back at an unnatural angle. There was a pause in which Dean tore away from the thing, scrambling back, thinking hopefully for a moment that maybe it was over._

_It was not._

_Dean watched, horrified, as his attacker's head righted itself with the sickening click of vertebrae. _

"_Dean," it smiled, "That hurt."_

_It was still smiling when it slammed Dean to the ground and reared back to beat him savagely. The first punch split the hunter's cheek down to the bone._

"_What's the matter, Dean?" it asked cheerfully between blows, "Why don't you just let it swallow you? The deeper you go, the better it feels. You climbed out the first time, but this time you won't. I'll close it up after. When you come out the other side, you'll feel better. You'll like me then, Dean. You'll bear me proudly." _

_Dean spluttered as blood ran down the back of his throat. Desperately, he held up his damaged hands to shield himself._

"_S-stop…" _

_It did, for just a moment, with its fist poised near its ear. The corners of its mouth curled inward._

"_Make me," it said, then cracked its bloodied knuckles against Dean's skull. Red lights and black gaps began to burst before the hunter's eyes, cluttering the image of the thing's white, clownish smile. _

_He couldn't stop it. He'd already tried._

_I _tried_…_

_He'd tried from the moment the walls came down. He'd fought, he'd cursed, he'd put claw marks in the stone, but there was no way back from this, not now. The Pit had opened, and that meant it was too late. The best he could do was keep from falling in._

"_Are you gonna make me, Dean? Are you gonna 'try'?" _

_Dean's head was knocked to the side by another vicious blow. His eyes stared blankly at the squelching mouth that lay puckered in the floor. A tear ran over the bridge of his nose._

"_No," he said, "I'm not." _

_Instantly, the barrage stopped. He looked up to see his doppelganger straddling his chest, head tilted in surprise. The black holes in its face seemed to consider him thoughtfully._

"_Well if you're not gonna fight back," it said slowly, "then this is boring."_

_It rolled off Dean's battered body and sprang to its feet, stretching its arms above its head._

"_I don't get why you don't like me better, Dean," it mused, "I got you out of that bunker, after all. I killed those demons and opened this…this _beautiful_ thing!" It paced lovingly around the edge of The Pit, bending down to stroke the hole's sphincterous flesh. It grinned at Dean with its hallow-eyed grin, telling him, "I _fed_ you, Dean. I just want to take care of you." _

"_You wanna turn me back into a demon!" the hunter choked, "You wanna shove me into that thing and have it shit me out a black-eyed freak." _

_He turned to his side and spat some blood out the corner of his mouth._

_For the first time, his doppelganger's perfect grin bent at the edges. When it spoke, its voice was no longer so saccharine._

"_I'm a Devil's mark, Dean," it said sharply, "and I'm gonna turn your soul to tar. You've already felt it happening—you remember it from before. Little black bits, shriveling up and falling away…guess where those bits go, Dean?" _

_He watched it hold out its arm. From beneath the skin rose a molten brand, steaming orange-hot in its flesh. It pointed to the mark._

"_They go here, Dean. They go here and I keep them safe. I put them back together. But I'm incomplete, you understand? I need the rest of you." _

_Dean grunted in disgust as he dragged himself back towards his corner. _

"_Look buddy," he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking, "I dunno who you think you are—"_

"_Who do I think I am?" it laughed, "I'm _you_, Dean! Or, I _will_ be." _

_There was a flicker, and suddenly the grinning doppelganger was back at Dean's side. It wound its hand into the back of the hunter's shirt and dragged him painfully upright. _

"_I'm all your little bits and pieces that belong to the Mark of Cain," it went on, "Slowly but surely, I've been putting myself together, learning your walk, your talk—Dean, I'm the flipside of your jigsaw puzzle! And today, I'm taking a corner piece."_

"_What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Dean cringed._

_The thing grinned at him and cackled._

"_Do you want to see?" it asked gleefully. _

_Dean wasn't sure he did, but he wasn't given a chance to say no. Without warning, his white-grinned, eyeless dead-ringer spun him around by the shoulders and shoved him roughly towards the wall. He was just about to catch himself from slamming into the stone when he was sent hurtling forward by a violent kick to the back. _

_Dean expected to hit the wall with bone-splintering force, but he didn't. Instead, he looked up to find himself standing inside an old, abandoned building, the walls around him pitted by termites, the ceiling above him full of holes—_

—_and there, pinned by his hand against at a paint-stripped pillar, was Castiel. The angel's face was all eyes and sweat under his dark hair, his skin having washed out to nothing from blood loss and pain. Looking down, Dean saw a swath of red stretching down his friend's side, soaking through his coat._

_Horror filled Dean like a spray of grey static. _

_Had he…?_

"_I—Cas!?" he choked, but his mouth didn't form the words. Instead, he heard himself say, "Try again." _

_Even to his own ears, the tone of his voice was chilling._

_Dean's stomach churned as he pressed Cas harder against the wood, feeling the angel's rib cage creak under the strain. He tried to release his friend, but couldn't—his body was no longer his own._

"_What is this?" he rasped, desperate for control. He jumped when a pair of arms snaked over his shoulders and around his middle. His doppelganger rested its chin in the hollow of his neck._

"_This is _us_," the creature said smoothly, "Or maybe just me. Hard to tell. At this point the line's a bit blurred, you know?"_

_Dean watched as Cas reached for him, grabbing at his wrist. He felt the angel's frail hold on his arm, heard him cough out his name—he saw the blood in his mouth and the lack of focus in his eyes and knew that Cas was dying. _

"_You bastard," he trembled, "Let him go!"_

_The thing snorted in his ear._

"_Nah."_

"_You're killing him!"_

"_I know!" it said cheerfully, "'Corner piece,' remember?"_

_Dean stopped struggling just briefly, alarmed._

"…_what?"_

_His doppelganger explained patiently, obviously enjoying itself._

"_Well, Cain was one," it said, "Crowley's another. Then the angel, then your brother. There's not really a set order, though. Just gotta collect all four."_

"_I…I don't—"_

"_Corner pieces, Dean! Each time you kill one, you carve out a nice, steaming hot slice of your soul. And guess who's holding the fork?" _

_Dean could practically smell the creature's shit-eating grin._

"_Now, Cas here?" it went on, "His death's worth nearly half the cake—or pie, if you prefer. Sam's too. I get you to take out one of them, and well…there'd really be no coming back from that, would there? You wouldn't want to."_

_Dean noticed, unhappily, that the creature was starting to sound more and more like him. _

"_I'm not gonna let you do this," he spat suddenly. Cas was starting to go limp in his hands, eyes closing, head falling forward._

"_Oh?" the thing laughed, "And just what do you think you can do to stop me, big guy?"_

_For a moment, Dean didn't do anything. He just stood stock-still as pistons fired in his brain, rage fueling him as he strategized. Then, all at once, the thought engine turned over head and his plan roared into focus._

_Dean smirked. _

"_I can do this, asswipe." _

_Whipping around his dead-ringer's grip, he cracked his head into its face and tackled it backwards, smashing it into the flagstones. It screeched._

_Looking up, Dean saw with satisfaction that he'd won his gamble. He and the thing were back in the stinking stone room, and not a meter from where they lay was The Pit. The hunter's smirk turned into a bark of laughter. Leaning back, he dealt his read-ringer a few crushing blows to the head before dragging it upright and kneeing it in the chest. As it doubled over, he caught the thing's chin in his hand, turning up its face so he could stare into its eyeless pits._

"_You better think twice about trying to trying to trap me in here again, you B-movie-horror-lookin' piece of shit!"_

_The creature had found its grin again, but the expression was colored by hatred. It looked up at Dean with its white teeth bared._

"_You can't beat me back forever, Dean. You gave me Cain. No matter what you do, I'll always be there, sitting on your shoulder."_

_The hunter grunted, disgusted._

"_Whatever, freak."_

_With a savage sound, he kicked his doppelganger towards The Pit. As it staggered to catch its balance, the thing tripped over the squelching, prehensile tongue that was sopping up pus from the floor. The appendage reacted immediately to the touch, lashing out and wrapping its wet length around his dead-ringer's leg. There was another screech as the creature was dragged unceremoniously towards The Pit's edge._

_Dean watched with cold eyes as the-thing-that-looked-like-him was gulped down into the floor._

_When the he turned around again, the hunter found himself back in the run-down building, a dying angel in his grasp. _

_This time, though, his hands listened when he told them to let go. _

* * *

As Dean's memory released him, Castiel groaned jerked on a bone-deep shudder, letting his head fall forward into one bloodied hand. A sharp, prickling sensation skittered on the inside of his skull, making him shake. It felt as if a thousand red-hot pins were being pulled slowly from his brain, though he couldn't have said how those pins got there in the first place.

Deep in his chest, the angel's stolen grace quivered and jumped, racing up his spine into his head. Like an immune response, it reacted to the foreign energy drilling into his mind, coiling tight and exploding outwards. With a pop of light, white like a flash-blub, Castiel felt his body expel the black, quilled thing that scrabbled inside his skull.

His ears began to clear. Dean's voice was the first thing he heard.

"Gah…" the hunter groaned, "what the _hell_, man?"

Dean sounded as shaken as Castiel felt.

When the angel's vision returned through a course veil of static, he saw that the hunter had fallen back on his rear, his elbows bent as he propped himself up. His eyes were wide and sightless, and wore a stunned expression on his face.

"Dean…" Castiel rasped. His mouth was dry.

Dean's gaze suddenly snapped into focus. When he turned to Castiel, his startled expression curled into a look of naked indignation.

"Since when do you go pokin' around inside my head without permission, Cas?!" he demanded.

Castiel blinked. A cold hole opened up inside his chest.

"What?"

Dean stammered, gesturing when words failed him. He shifted back a few inches, boots scuffing the floor.

"You!" he said, "_You_, with the _hand_, and, and the Vulcan mind-meld thing. Dream chats and zapping me from place to place, that's one thing, Cas, but you've never…I didn't think you'd ever…"

The hunter turned onto his hip, his arms shaking underneath him. When he pulled back even further, Castiel realized that Dean was not only hurt, but afraid.

"That was some serious Zachariah-type shit you just pulled," the hunter snapped, "Where the hell do you get off?"

_Oh_.

The angel realized he still had an arm outstretched towards his friend. He lowered it.

"Dean," he asked slowly, still unable to draw a full breath, "Do you think that I…that I was trying to…read your thoughts? Without your consent?"

"I don't think you _tried_ to do anything," the hunter shot back, snarling under a hooked lip. Castiel felt the cold hole in his chest yawn wider, and it ached. He felt the emotion pull at his vessel's face, reshaping his expression. Dean suddenly looked unsure. Castiel glared at him, feeling a painful feeling, like betrayal, settle between his wings. He was irritated with the hunter for putting it there.

"I would _never_," he assured his friend. His tone was sharper than intended, "How could you think that?"

Dean faltered. His eyes—green, glassy, and slightly crazed—flickered over Castiel in random, searching patterns.

"I—" he began, but the angel didn't let him finish.

"_Never_," Castiel repeated. He stared at the hunter unflinchingly.

The hunter shut his mouth and swallowed.

"Okay," he said, "Fine. Good. Thank you. Then what the hell _was_ that?"

The angel blinked.

"You don't know?"

"Well, I thought it was you, so apparently not!"

For a moment, Castiel struggled with whether or not to tell him, not sure if it was worth it. He decided that it was.

"Dean," he said carefully, "I never meant to read your thoughts. Something inside _you_ tried to read _mine_."

For a moment, the hunter smiled a bit in disbelief, then frowned and shook his head when he realized the angel was serious. He opened his mouth to reply, but he never got the chance.

"Well!" called a familiar voice from behind them, "that's just a _lovely_ bend in the road, innit? You two sure know how thicken a plot, I'll give you that much."

Angel and hunter turned quickly towards the sound. Almost immediately, Dean dropped his head back on a groan.

"Aw, come _on_!" he said, "You gotta be _friggin'_ kidding me!"

There, framed by the night-blue light that filled the doorway, stood Crowley. With his hands in his coat pockets, the demon king settled his weight over his legs and smirked.

"'Allo, boys."

* * *

Reviews are loved.

Critiques are encouraged.

Always feel free to ask questions.

~DWC


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: WELCOME BACK! I've been trying to update every week on Wednesday or Thursday, and I think this is my third week meeting the deadline. Hurrah! Anyway, so glad to have readers here for the penultimate chapter of SoHSoC Part I. The story will be a three-parter, but all three parts will be collected in this story. I'm very excited. Today we have more Sam and Charlie as they work together to try and find Cas and Dean. Well, Charlie works, Sam supplies coffee. Personally, I just love having Charlie in the mix because she brings tech and science into the Supernatural world. I had so much fun with this chapter. I hope you enjoy. Leave a review if you have time - they light up my day. **

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

Charlie was all legs and wires as she lay half in, half out of the computer deck, her slim hands zip-tying together cables of matching colors to keep them organized. When she spoke, her voice sounded tinny from bouncing around inside the system's metal housing.

"So let me get this straight," she said, plugging another cord into its port, "All told, your brother's gone mad with a power that predates the Old Testament, your resident angel is in the outfield, and your only back-up is a pint-sized hacker with a rundown VW and an unhealthy Tolkien obsession?"

Sam walked over with a steaming pot of coffee in hand, refilling Charlie's mug. He sighed.

"I guess that's the long and short of it, yeah."

The hacker let out a humorless snort.

"Must be Thursday," she quipped. She held out a hand, "Bring me that soldering iron, would ya?"

Sam brought her the soldering iron. After she took it, he leaned against the table, refilled his own coffee, and added a shot of whiskey for good measure. He drank slowly as he watched Charlie work, smelling the scent of hot metal. He didn't bother asking her what she was doing. He knew he wouldn't understand even if she told him.

Suddenly, there was a snap and a spark. Charlie squawked and snatched her hand away from a block of hardware, shaking out her fingers before sticking them in her mouth.

"Ow," she said.

Sam leaned down.

"You okay?"

"Oh, yeah. You know, just the consequences of a rush job—you're gonna get zapped, and you're gonna get burned. But its fine, I'm done with this part anyway. On to step five!"

"You said _this_ was step five."

"Fine, step six, then. Whatever, it doesn't matter. Wait till you see this."

Shimmying out of the console, Charlie pulled herself upright with the help of a table leg and dove back into her duffle bag, digging out fistfuls of electrical components and wadded cords until she found what she was looking for.

"Yeh-heah," she laughed, grinning around the several zip-ties she still held between her teeth. Sam looked over her shoulder as she brought out a black, reinforced tactical case, the kind used to store and transport firearms. Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Um, Charlie? What is that?"

The hacker didn't answer. Instead, she did a little dance, singing, "What's in the _box_?" while seeming to produce a key from thin air. Still humming and bouncing on her knees, she leaned down and unfastened the two padlocks that held the case shut.

"Ta-daaa," she announced, opening the box and stepping to the left so Sam could see what was inside. When the hunter's mouth dropped open, Charlie waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Ain't she purdy?" she said, still speaking around the zip-ties in her mouth. She began to chew them as Sam fawned over the case's contents.

"Is…is that a _quadcopter_?!" he gaped.

Charlie's grin stretched wider.

"It's called the Yuneec Q500 4K," she beamed, pleased with Sam's enthusiasm, "It's one of the best drones currently on the market."

Sam was leaning over the tiny aircraft with his hands held awkwardly in front of him. He looked at Charlie with an expression of desperation.

"May I?" he asked, pointing.

The hacker laughed.

"Yeah, of course," she said, "Pick 'er up and have a look."

Sam swallowed and did so, eagerly. Lifting the quadcopter gingerly from its foam bedding, the hunter tilted it this way and that, then raised it up so he could study the aircraft's undercarriage. The drone itself was only about the size of a dinner plate, but with its sensors and rotors and gleaming black paint job, it looked a bit mean. Its appearance, along with the firm feel of its construction, made it obvious the rig was no plaything. Sam was impressed.

"Very Skynet," he said, handing the drone to Charlie. Her eyes shone above her smile.

"Thanks," she said, then began equipping the quadcopter with a power supply, a camera, and a few other aftermarket components Sam didn't recognize, "Hand me that tiny little phillip's-head, will you?"

Sam handed her the tiny little phillip's-head.

A thought occurred to him.

"Hey. Charlie?" he asked, watching the hacker unscrew a panel from the back of the quadcopter's remote, "Don't get me wrong, that thing is _awesome_, and I'm grateful—no, _more_ than grateful for you help, but how is a drone gonna help us find Dean an Cas?"

Charlie set four minuscule screws on the tabletop, turning them up on their heads so they wouldn't roll. Her pale face had gone tight at his question, as if she'd been expecting it. She wouldn't look him in the eye.

"It's not," she replied, quietly. Before Sam could interject, she continued, "It's not going to help us find Castiel, anyway. He's gone."

"What? Gone _where_? How do you—"

The hacker cut him off by fingering a few keys on her laptop, turning the screen to face him. On the screen was a map with a single blue blip in its center.

"Zoom in," Charlie told him. Her face was grim.

Sam toggled the arrow keys, rending a closer shot of the map. Charlie explained as the terrain loaded in slow squares:

"I checked right after you called—I have Cas' number, for emergencies. You mentioned you couldn't get him on the phone, but you didn't say anything about tracking his GPS. So I did. What you have there is his last location, before he went dark."

The image finally snapped into focus. There were two yellow lines in view: one marked _Bakers St_, the other _Old Sawmill Rd_. Sam couldn't see where the two roads intersected. That point on the map was covered over by the pale blue blip.

The hunter stared at the screen, throat working as he swallowed hard.

"_Crossroads_," he said.

It was all he could force out.

Charlie nodded, turning the computer back around. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. They both understood the implications.

Sam sank back into a chair, heavily, pulling his hands down the sides of his face.

"Aw, Cas," he muttered, mostly to himself. He closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger into their corners, "Aw, _Cas_."

Charlie hung her head, picking at a tangled clump of wires.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I know that's not what you wanted to hear, but if it makes you feel better, I gave you the bad news first."

Sam looked up from under his hand.

"What's the good news?" he asked.

"The good news," Charlie said, using a cable to connect the drone remote to the computer deck, "is that your token redhead computer genius has a super-smart over-clocked flying robo-friend that can help us find your brother."

She flipped a switch and toggled some levers and the quadcopter whirred to life.

Sam watched the rig calibrate.

"How?" he asked, "I've looked into drones. They have short ranges and ever shorter battery lives. The only way we could even begin to use this thing to find Dean would be if he were still in the immediate area."

Charlie stopped typing and looked up, offended.

"First of all, how _dare_ you," she said, "Did you _really_ think I would settle for a thirty-minute battery life and a three-hundred-foot flight radius? Psh. Nuh-uh. The _first_ thing I did when I bought this puppy was double her power supply and installed a long-range receiver. This thing can go for miles.

"Second of all, none of that matters anyway because Dean is still in town."

"_What?_"

Sam gripped the table's edge.

Charlie grinned.

"You heard me," she said.

"Yeah. I heard you. How do you _know_ that?"

She shrugged.

"The police told me."

Sam opened his mouth, but the hacker cut him off, correcting herself.

"Well, okay," she admitted, "the police didn't tell _me_, exactly, but—here."

She pulled what looked to be a high-tech kernel of corn out of her right ear. A circle of blue light glowed around its domed end.

"It's a wireless Bluetooth ear-bud," she explained, handing it to him, "Put it in. Listen."

Sam did as he was told. He frowned when he heard familiar-sounding chatter, then half-smiled, impressed.

"Is that—?"

"Police radio," Charlie grinned, "I synced the ear-bubs to a wide-band scanner. I've been listening in since I was a few miles outside town. Heard something interesting on my way in."

"Like what?"

Charlie was typing on second laptop now, explaining as she worked.

"Some guy's wife called the police station. She insisted that her husband had been 'robbed at gunpoint' by a 'bloody madman.' That piqued my interest, so I pulled over the VW to listen. I heard the dispatcher relay an address to a patrolman, so I wrote it down and used a reverse look-up tool to find the home and phone number. This is the place, by the way."

She showed him a street-view image of the white, one-story home.

"I called," she went on quickly, "_claiming_ to be a detective. My first time impersonating an officer of the law—you guys are a bad influence. Anyway, the husband refused to talk to me, but his wife had _plenty_ to say. Apparently, her 'hubby' Jerry Nealen, father of two, closed up his liquor store early tonight and then stumbled through the door of their family home looking sheet-white and scared out of his mind. At first, he wouldn't tell his ol' lady anything about what happened, but in Shirley's—the wife's—own words, 'You're no good as a wife or mother unless you know how to get to the truth,' so she got him to spill. He told her some guy came in his shop packing heat and covered in blood, looking for booze. He said the guy claimed the blood wasn't his, and that he'd kill Jerry if he called the police. Then he paid for his booze and left. So it wasn't _quite_ robbery, and it wasn't _exactly_ at gunpoint, but I get why Jerry was scared."

"How do you know it was Dean?"

"Because I know what Dean looks like," Charlie snorted, "and because Jerry Nealen is a man of the future. He has a smartphone app that he uses to monitor his store's security cameras from home. His wife was able to email me some screenshots from the recording of tonight's feed. They have joint access to the account."

She clicked on an email, opening the attached .jpeg file. She turned the screen.

"Look."

Sam looked.

For a security camera, the picture was surprisingly clear. The bloodied figure standing in middle of Nealen Liquor was unmistakably Dean, but Sam didn't know whether to feel happy for having found him or horrified at how he looked. His brother was coated in blow-back and blood spatter, and his skin was bone-pale around his eyes. Dean was smiling in the picture, condescendingly, like a killer who claimed there were more bodies but refused to say where. Sam had to wonder how close that was to the truth.

He looked at the time stamp.

"Okay," he admitted, "This wasn't that long ago, but how do you know he didn't leave town after this? He could be miles away by now."

"Not unless he can fly."

Charlie pulled up another picture. This one was an exterior shot of Nealen Liquor's parking lot. It was empty.

"No cars," the hacker pointed out, "So that means he left on foot. Plus, _you_ have the Impala, and there have been no reported hijackings or stolen cars in Lebanon for the past twenty-four hours. Unless he got a ride from someone—doubtful with his whole _American Psycho_ vibe—that means he can't have gotten far. So," she swung around and pointed both index fingers at the quadcopter, "_Drone_."

She picked up the tiny aircraft and gave it to Sam.

"I need you to take this outside," she said. She picked up a pamphlet and stuck it between his teeth, "These are instructions. You do Steps One through Three. They aren't hard."

She stuck a walkie-talkie in his back pocket.

"Radio me when it's done. I have to launch it from here."

Sam shifted the drone carefully one hand and took the pamphlet out of his mouth, moving it to his shirt pocket.

"Charlie—" he began.

"Ah-ah!" the hacker cut him off, waving her hands emphatically, "Look. Samwise. I know you have more questions, but we're on the clock, here. I'll explain how the rest works as in-flight entertainment. Now _go_. Shoo."

Sam sighed and turned to leave.

"Oh, wait!"

Sam sighed and turned back.

"Yeah?"

Charlie was smiling awkwardly. She hesitated.

"If, by any chance," she said slowly, "anyone in a suit with a badge ever shows up and asks you about what we're doing here right now, just tell them I asked you to help me test my new toy quadcopter, okay?"

Sam narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Why?"

The hacker looked sheepish.

"I, uh, I may have done some things that voided the drone's factory warrantee," she admitted, "Strictly speaking, my modifications aren't exactly within the limits of the law. Probably better for you if you pretend not to know about them."

"Huh," Sam cleared his throat. He looked down at the rig in his hands, seeing it in a new, less rosy light.

He asked her:

"Are we talking a, uh, 'I-ripped-a-tag-off-my-mattress' slap-on-the-wrist type thing, or a 'Sir-I'm-gonna-need-you-to-answer-a-few-questions-down-at-headquarters-it's-a-matter-of-National-Security' Class-A Felony type thing?"

Charlie thought for a moment.

"What do you think happens if you get caught violating Federal Aviation laws?" she asked.

Sam groaned.

"So glad I asked," he grumbled. He began to make his way reluctantly up the stairs.

"Remember to radio me!" Charlie called after him.

The hunter let the door slam on his way out.

* * *

**Reviews are loved.**

**Critiques are encourgaed.**

**Always feel free to ask questions.**

**~DWC**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: Alright, so I was wrong-I thought this chapter was going to be the last one. Nope. I just can't abide monster chapters-it's not my way. So I'm gonna keep churning them out in 2,000-3,000 word chunks, and when we get there, we get there. Now as to where we are-WE'RE WITH CROWLEY. Love me some Crowley. Haven't written from his perspective before, so it was fun to try. We also get some bad-ass, danger Dean. Also fun. Not much Cas, but there will be plenty of him later. Next chapter is back to Sam and Charlie as they try to find our wayward heroes. Sons. Whatever they are. Please, ENJOY. **

**I'm so happy to have to many readers interested in this story. I hope you continue to be engaged. Please, let me know what you think in a review if you have the time. For those of you who R&amp;R so often (AlexHamato, deadone1013, gr8read, NorthernShinigami), you really are the gas in my engine. You are the reason authors learn to write for their audiences instead of themselves. **

**Onward!**

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Fifteen

* * *

Straightening the bloodstone cuff-links he wore on either wrist, Crowley—the dapper and debonair Demon King of Hell—smirked in a way that deepened the lines around his eyes.

It wasn't often that he could claim to be well and truly flush with success. His fortunes over the past several years had been a bit of a mixed bag. He'd had some good luck, sure—he'd gone from salesman to king, after all—but it had seemed for a while that for each one of his good turns, he'd been met with a rash of bad ones. _Tonight_, however…

The demon king shook out an arm to read the time off his Rolex. He noted the hour with a nod and a quirk of his brow, then scented the air with a breath pulled hard through his nose.

"A-ah," he sighed. The breeze smelled sweet. _Tonight_, the winds of fate were blowing in a new direction—a direction that favored Crowley.

With an even smile, he looked over his shoulder at the two demons that attended him.

"Remember this, Gentlemen," he said with assurance, "Everyone in the world—_everyone_—has something that they want. Even better, they _all_ have something they are willing to sell for it. Closing a deal is only ever as hard as naming the right price."

The pair of black-eyed spawn exchanged looks, but nodded courteously. They were skeptical. Crowley supposed they had a right to be. They were a couple of conservatives, the both of them. He preferred them that way. Fewer surprises. Still, it meant the spoils of the evening were lost on them, and _that_ was unfortunate, _especially_ when the words "sale of the century" didn't even _begin_ to describe the deal he'd made. In fact, it wasn't even a "deal" at all. Not really.

It was a _victory_.

Crowley checked his Rolex again. He tapped the watch-face.

"Well," he said, tone chipper, "I think we've given the situation ample time to maturate, don't you? If Winchester was going to kill his angel, he'd've done it by now."

His lackeys exchanged looks again, but this time their skepticism drained into outright fear.

Crowley smirked at them, unconcerned.

Tucking his hands into his pockets, the Demon King cracked his neck and sidled into the derelict hovel that Dean Winchester had made his hideaway. Crowley stopped just inside the doorway to plant his feet astride some rubble.

His two attendants entered the building behind him, jerking through the door. They came to stand beside him, their white throats sunken with terror. They both carried angel blades, but it wasn't angels they feared. The demon to Crowley's right was shaking so badly that its wristwatch rattled against the grip of its sword. Its black eyes were fixed on shadowy figure crouched just a few yards away.

Crowley waved a hand at the trembling hell-spawn, cautioning silence. The Demon King turned his head, listening:

Dean was speaking.

"Blah blah," he said, "Something accusatory. How could you?"

Castiel answered him.

"Dean," he said, "Something something. You wound me with your mistrust."

Dean: "Yada yada. Sarcasm."

Castiel: "Heartfelt denial."

Both: (Prolonged eye contact).

Alright, so that was only the _gist_ of what the pair said, but Crowley found he couldn't bear to pay any closer attention. It was all he could do to keep his fingers out of his ears.

_Honestly_. What _was_ it with those two?

The Demon King sighed and pushed a pinky into the corner of his eye, fishing out a bit of sand. He flicked it away, wondering at how Winchester and the angel never seemed to tire of reliving their same old song and dance: New Crisis plus Homoerotic Subtext minus Originality.

It was embarrassing, really, their lack of dynamism.

Didn't make for good entertainment.

He opened his mouth and was about to interrupt them when he heard something that renewed his interest.

"Dean," he heard Castiel say, "I never meant to read your thoughts. Something inside _you_ tried to read _mine_."

Cue shock and alarm from Winchester.

Crowley had to press a fist to his mouth to stifle a sound that was half surprise and half laughter. Well, color him impressed—apparently Dean and his pet angel _hadn't_ lost their spark of spontaneity! He could have applauded, but he didn't.

The Demon King started to speak before he could stop himself, turning to his attendants as did, pointing at the ground, telling them to stay put.

"Well!" he exclaimed, "that's just a lovely bend in the road, innit? You two certainly know how to thicken a plot, I'll give you that much."

Dean and Castiel moved sharply in the dark, their heads turning to look his way. Dean's spine curled like an angered dog's, reacting blindly to the intrusion. His teeth flashed white in a snarl. He was nearly on his feet when he really _saw_ Crowley, and his brain caught up with his rage.

Crowley smirked when he saw the hunter's posture sag in frustration.

"Aw, come _on_!" Dean groaned, "You gotta be _friggin'_ kidding me!"

Crowley chuckled, the sound like gravel in an ashtray. His let his eyes flood red as he looked between hunter and angel. Dean's head dropped back as he muttered curses to the ceiling, but Castiel said nothing. The angel just swallowed and stared. Crowley winked at him, and he lowered his gaze.

"'Allo boys," the Demon King smiled.

Dean sneered.

"Crowley!" he spat.

The demon lifted his eyebrows and shoulders in a classic _Who, me?_ shrug. Dean eyed him for a moment, furious. Then his expression shifted—loosened. His brow furrowed and his mouth pulled down into a frown. He looked down at Castiel, confused.

"_Crowley_?" he asked. His tone was lower, more urgent.

The angel didn't answer him. Didn't even nod. He just stared at the floor.

A new kind of anger redrew the lines of Dean's body. He got to his feet in earnest this time, pointing with one hand, holding a bloody knife in the other. His movements were slow, but dangerous.

"Crowley…" he began again, but the Demon King cut him off.

"It's so _flattering_ how you always announce my entrances, Mr. Winchester," Crowley said, "Makes me feel like a princess."

"Shut up."

Crowley wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips. Tilting his head, he let his eyes rise with Dean's height as the hunter walked slowly towards him.

Dean pointed back at Castiel.

"Did you shoot him?" he demanded. His voice was soft.

Crowley looked around the hunter at the angel. He waggled a finger.

"Who, him?" he asked innocently. He paused.

Then he grinned.

He grinned a big, unctuous, self-satisfied grin right in Dean Winchester's face.

"Ay, I shot him!" he said, "Of_ course_ I shot him! Had so much fun, did it twice! How 'bout that?"

The demon had to dance back as Dean lashed out with the knife, the blade point cutting through the air not inches from Crowley's whiskered throat.

"Now, now," the Demon King tutted, "That's no way to treat an old friend, is it?"

He waved a hand.

Cued by their lord's gesture, the two demons by the door sprang forward. One came to stand at Crowley's side while the other blinked into the Void, reappearing next to Castiel an instant later. The angel grunted as the demon twisted one pale hand into his hair, pressing a blade point against his jugular with the other.

Dean stood between them all. His eyes flickered, but his attention never left Crowley's face.

Leveling his knife with the Demon King's nose, the hunter took a step forward into a shaft of blue light. His body cast long, black shadows onto the floor.

"I'm gonna spackle the walls with your guts," he said calmly. He tipped his head until his neck cracked. He didn't blink. Crowley could see that the man's pupils were pin-pricks, despite the darkness. He could see that Dean looked…

_Bollocks_.

The Demon King cleared his throat and took a sensible step backwards. He put a hand on his attendant's sword arm, directing the demon to lower its weapon. The hell-spawn resisted him briefly, so Crowley turned to it and hissed:

"Don't be stupid, mate. Situation's changed. Take a good look at him, eh?"

The demon did as it was bid and Crowley felt it hesitate, blade-point dipping. He squeezed the creature's arm.

"You see?" he asked, "We fight with him now, we end up dead. Put it away."

There was a sound like a wet sponge being shoved into a coffee mug as Crowley's demon swallowed down its fear. At its king's command, the hell-spawn sheathed its weapon and shuffled back several paces, leaving Crowley and Dean in the center of the room, hardly more than an arm's length of space between them.

The Demon King narrowed his eyes at the hunter, looking him up and down. He let his head slide to the side, discerningly.

"Bit peaked, eh, Squirrel?" he asked at last.

Dean's face twitched, but he said nothing. He didn't have to. He was standing in the light, now, dim as it was, and Crowley could see the hunter looked terrible.

Nah, worse than that.

He looked…corrupted.

The Demon King grimaced.

Something dark and familiar was blurring Dean at his edges. Black vapors curled out from under the soles of his shoes, and when he spoke, his breath turned oily and smoked inside his mouth. Crowley glanced at Castiel, wondering if the angel could see it, too, though he expected not.

The pall that hung over Dean was a special kind of ugliness. Tended to be that you could only see it on others if you knew it in yourself.

Crowley watched the hunter smoke and shudder, listening to the faint sizzle of Dean's feet against the floor. He nodded knowingly.

"Chafes, don't it?" he asked, "Being in here?"

Dean's shoulders hitched on a sharp, angry breath. He dragged a hand along his jaw, wiping away beads of sweat.

"Fuck you," he said.

Crowley shrugged.

"What, no dinner first?"

Dean was visibly _un-_amused. He took another step forward.

Crowley took another step back.

Outside, a bolt of sheer cloud-cover rolled off the moon. Blunt white light poured in through the broken windows and slatted walls, throwing everything into sharp contrast. From where he lay on the floor, Castiel let out a startled gasp. Distracted, Crowley and Dean as both turned towards the angel.

Seemingly oblivious to Crowley's demon and the blade it held across his throat, Castiel stared upwards, eyes wide. His face was awash in a radiant kaleidoscope of color.

Everyone followed his gaze.

Crowley grunted in surprise.

There, set high into the rotting, steepled wall was a single plate of wood-framed stained glass. Unlike the rest of the building, this one round window was beautifully intact. No one had noticed it in the dark, but with the sky outside wiped cleaned by the breeze and the high moon shining bright, the window was now brilliantly illuminated. The design was delicate but simple; pink and red and gold rosettes were clustered around an aqua crucifix, the flowers bedded on leaves of vivid green.

Castiel blinked.

"This…this is a _church_," he breathed. He looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.

Dean looked around, too, and then squinted up at the stained glass window. He nodded.

"Yep."

"Churches are…hallowed ground," the angel went on. His eyes were amber and green as he turned them on Dean. His expression was hopeful.

"So," he hesitated, "If you're _here_, then you're not…?"

"What?" Dean rued, "Black-eyed and bushy-tailed? Nah. Apparently not."

"Not _yet_," Crowley amended, under his breath. Dean's gaze shot towards him. The Demon King turned up his hands.

"What?" he asked innocently, "It's true. You're farther gone than even _I_ expected you to be. Besides," he addressed Castiel, jabbing a finger towards the angel, "It's poor logic on your part, Kitten. There's _plenty_ of us demons who are strong enough to waltz in an out of holy places without any trouble at all. If memory serves, Dean was once one of them."

He looked Dean in the eye, adding: "And he's well on his way to becoming one again."

The hunter's expression remained impassive until that final remark. Then a tendon began to pulse in his jaw. Without a word, he flipped his knife around his in hand until he held it by the blade point, ready to throw in the Demon King's direction.

"So help me, Crowley," he said quietly, "if you don't shut your slimy, whore mouth, I _will_ end you."

Dean's tone sounded so calm on the surface, but if he strained, Crowley thought he could hear a tremor of instability undercutting the hunter's words. Barely restrained fury.

The Demon King swallowed and tried to shuffle out of Dean's sights, but the hunter's hand followed him not matter which way he leaned. He started to feel nervous. Rather, he started to feel _more_ nervous. Crowley raised a finger as he backed up, losing more ground as he continued towards the church door. He eyed Dean's knife.

"Don't you dare," he warned the hunter, "I'm telling you, you do that, you make _one_ wrong move and I'll have my man stick his blade into 'hunter's best friend' over there, make Cassie go _poof_. That what you want?"

Dean stopped and stared at him, his expression flat.

"That's your plan, huh?" he asked.

Crowley nodded, trying to make the gesture as intimidating as possible.

"It is," he replied, "Don't test me."

"Okay."

The hunter's knife hand twitched. There was a whistle and a _thunk_, followed by an electric orange flash and the smell of burning skin. The demon next to Castiel dropped its angel blade with a clatter, its eyes wide with surprise.

The hell-spawn toppled over in a heap, Dean's knife buried hilt-deep in its skull.

Crowley gaped. Dean stared at him. He'd never looked away.

"So," the hunter asked, "What's Plan B?"

* * *

**Reviews are loved. **

**Critiques are encouraged. **

**Always feel free to ask questions.**

**~DWC**


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: Welcome back, guys! I just have a quick little punch of a chapter to offer you guys. Life is keeping me too busy to produce anything more, but I am trying. Its back to Sam and Charlie again in this one. Not too action-y, but I hope it makes you smile. Dean and company will return in the next chapter, so if the below isn't your bag, you have saucy demons, corrupted hunters, and wounded angels to look forward to.**

**As always, thank you so much to deadone1013, gr8read, and especially AlexHamato for all your consistent encouragement. To _all_ my readers and reviewers, and to the lurkers, too, I see you return for each chapter and it just makes me thrilled to write. Thanks again!**

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Sixteen

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Sam's boots crunched on a bed of bracken and leaves as he waded into woods outside the bunker. All around him, the trees swayed, looking black and bone-naked. They clacked and groaned in the wind.

As he walked, the moon above gasped in and out of roving cloud-cover, its light cutting a hard circle out of the sky. Sam looked down at the drone in his hand, watching how it gleamed. Gripping it tight, he wondered if having the thing would do them any good at all. The streak of doubt he felt yawned wide in his chest. He frowned.

Didn't matter. It's not like he'd been able to come up with a better plan, anyway.

With his long limbs dragging through the scrub, Sam pushed forward, spying the tree-line in the distance. Beyond it, he could see farmland, pale and pan-flat. He tore his arm out of some briar and ducked beneath a branch. When leaves caught in his hair, he left them there.

He had to hurry.

It took some doing—some grunting and cursing, too—but at last the hunter extracted himself from the thorny underbrush, albeit wearing more plant matter on his person that he would have preferred. When he tossed his head, twigs tumbled out of his hair. He shrugged a length of vine from around his chest, and when he popped a shoulder to knock away some cobwebs, something alive skittered down the back of his neck, buzzed, and flew off. Sam shuddered, unnerved. Straightening up, he looked out over the open fields.

The plains stretched for miles to the north, west, and south, all rippling and silvery under the moon. They might have looked pretty, too, if Sam could have found anything pretty in that moment. Instead, he looked down at his feet, pacing out a hundred steps into the farmland, distance enough from the trees to safely launch the drone.

Finding a particularly flat plot—not exactly a tall order in Kansas—Sam began to scuff his feet through the grass, leveling out a crop circle for his very own little UFO.

That done, he held Charlie's drone gingerly under one arm, unfolding the instructions she'd given him. He tilted the paper towards the moon so he could read it, squinting in the dim light. Just then, his back pocket crackled and buzzed as Charlie called out to him through the radio.

"This is _Glinda-the-Good-Bitch_ to _Scruffy-Bean-Pole_," she said, "Come in, _Scruffy-Bean-Pole_. Over."

Snorting, Sam rolled his eyes and put the glossy launch instructions between his teeth so he could fish into his pockets. The pamphlet wobbled in his mouth and flapped noisily, catching on the breeze. When he turned his head, it folded upward and slapped him in the face.

"Gerd dermmit!" he cursed around the paper, still fumbling for the walkie-talkie.

Charlie barked out his call-sign again, more urgently this time:

"_Scruffy-Bean-Pole_, do you copy?" she asked, "Over."

Sam finally got a hold of the radio, rearranging everything in his arms so he could speak into it.

"Yeah. Yeah, I copy," he huffed, struggling with the drone as he set it down to launch.

"'_Scruffy-Bean-Pole_?'" he asked, "Really?"

He could hear Charlie's smile when she replied:

"It was either that or _Plaid Sasquatch_. Take your pick. Over."

"You know, you don't have to say 'over' after every sentence," Sam grumbled. He pulled up a few fistfuls of grass to keep it from tangling in the drone's propellers.

"Yeah, and you don't have to be the world's biggest kill-joy," Charlie shot back, "I'm doing my best to keep things light here, you feel? Over."

Sam straightened up on a pang of guilt. He cleared his throat.

"Yeah, I 'feel'," he said, "Sorry. I've, uh, I've got the drone ready, so…whenever. Ah, _over_."

"Perfect!" Charlie chirped, "Apology accepted. Can't stay mad at that stupid puppy face of yours, anyway."

"But you can't even _see_ my stupid puppy face."

"Psh, yes, I can. Look down."

Sam looked down. From where it sat on the ground, the drone vibrated gently, a small terminal on its undercarriage rolling forward and lifting upwards. The camera, he realized. As he watched, the lens inside the terminal spun and telescoped, looking Sam up and down as it focused. The movement was unsettlingly human.

"Creepy…" he muttered.

"I know, right? Big Sister is watching. Give us a wave, Sambone!" Charlie hooted, adding hurriedly, "_Over_."

Sam took his hand out of his pocket and gave the camera a stiff, awkward wave. He pressed the radio button.

"How many nicknames do you have for me, anyway?" he asked.

"_So_ many," Charlie said. Again, Sam could hear her smile. This time, he was compelled to smile back. He heard the hacker laugh and take a breath.

"Okay," she said, "Step back, alright? Just to be safe."

Sam did as he was told, stepping back. The servos inside the drone whirred louder.

Static hissed over the radio.

"Okay…launch will commence in _t_-minus…er, _now_!"

With a peppy _vrrrp_, the rig shot upwards.

Startled, Sam jumped another couple feet away, leaning back another few inches for good measure.

The drone in front of him hummed and listed, dipping and flying up again until Charlie brought it into a steady hover. Coming level with Sam's nose, the rig moved closer, near enough that the hunter could feel its propellers fanning his face. Charlie's voice crackled through the walkie-talkie.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready," Sam affirmed.

"Good. Alrighty then. Here we go. 'I'm a _leaf_ on the _wind_…'watch as I violate restricted air-space."

Immediately, the drone began to rise higher and higher, rocking a bit as it negotiated the cross-breezes. After a few seconds, the only way Sam could track its movement in the black sky was by watching the blinking locator lights on its undercarriage. For a moment, it just idled, stationary. Then, after pitching backwards, it zipped off into the east, towards town. Sam watched it go until he could no longer see its lights.

With a spatter of sound, the radio came alive again, Charlie's voice buzzing in his hand.

"You can come back now," she said. She sounded distant, like she was concentrating. She probably was. Sam turned back towards the tree line. Looking at the shivering trees, he stopped. Memories of crawling night bugs, clinging plant life, and spider webs cycled through his brain. He shook himself, scratched at his neck, and pressed the radio button again.

"I—yeah, you know what?" he told Charlie, "Gimme a few extra minutes to get back. I'm taking the long way this time. I don't feel like going through the woods again."

Charlie tsked.

"See?" she said, "Told you they were spooky."

"Er, _no_," he said, "I just—ah, you know what?" he shook his head, "Never mind. You're right. So spooky. I'll see you in a bit."

Dropping in the radio back into his pocket, he set off towards the country road that ran half a mile south of the field, his long legs dragging through thigh-deep grasses.

* * *

Reviews are loved.

Critiques are encouraged.

Always feel free to ask questions.

~DWC


	17. Chapter 17

**Dear Readers: So, uh, yeah. It's only been like… a year. You might want to go back and re-read a few chapters (or *cough cough* the whole thing *cough*) because heck, _I_ didn't ever remember everything about this story it's been so long. Anyway, I promised I wouldn't abandon this story, and I won't. Without further ado, please enjoy the next installment of "Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain."**

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Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Seventeen

* * *

"_Plan B? Plan B?!" _

Dean's doppelganger smacked a hand to its forehead and flung out an arm. There was a new savageness in its voice, edged by disbelief, as it looked between hunter and Demon King.

"_Plan _B_," _it spat, jabbing a finger towards Crowley,_ "is we turn this fucker's insides into outsides and leave his lackey to clean up the mess!_"

Dean's face twitched, fighting down a reaction. Looking at Crowley, he had to admit, the thought of gutting the demon and leaving him to die on the floor of that church was a pretty appealing idea—and his double knew it.

With its pitted eyes all black and wide and yawning, his doppelganger stepped around in front of him and took his face in its hands. Its too-white teeth showed in a grin that was half-smile, half-threat.

"_Listen_," it hissed, "_Listen to me. Just give us this one, huh? Just Crowley. Just the one. I can feel how much you want to—you want to end him, right here, right now. You want to kill him for what he did to Cas. So do it! He's the only one we both want dead, right? We agree on that, so let's do it. I'll help. With me it will be fast. It will be perfect. Here, I'll even get you the knife_."

Dean didn't move. At least, he didn't think he did. As far as he could tell, he just stood there, staring past his doppelganger's right ear at a fear-pale Crowley and his one remaining underling. His knife was gone, across the room, embedded in the bald skull of Crowley's other demon—until it wasn't. Dean heard a scraping sound, then a faint whistling, and suddenly his hand closed around the still-warm handle of his blade. He had no idea how he'd done it.

Then:

"_See?_" his double said into his ear, "_I can help you, if you let me._"

Dean looked down at the knife, its warded length streaked in blood and brain matter. He wiped it clean on his jeans and studied his reflection in the steel. His eyes were black wells. Whether from shadows or something worse, he couldn't be sure. He looked up again when Crowley cleared his throat.

"Neat trick," the demon quipped, but his tone betrayed his fright. He, too, was staring at the blade, wondering how it had gotten from where it had been to where it was now.

The blade rasped as Dean tucked it under his belt. Ignoring the demons and his snarling doppelganger, Dean turned a hole in the dust covering the floor and walked over to Cas. Leaning back, the angel blinked up at him warily. Dean tried to reassure him with a smirk, but the expression shriveled and fell away like burnt paper. He sighed.

"C'mon," he said. Kneeling down, the hunter ducked under one of Castiel's arms and stood, pulling his friend slowly upright. The angel sucked in a breath at being moved, clenching his teeth, but otherwise he made no sound, taking the pain stoically. He was halfway to his feet when his coat caught on a wooden splinter, jostling him. Dean helped shrug him out of the bloody canvas, holding the Cas steady against his side. He raised his eyes to Crowley's.

"We're leaving," he said, daring the demon to argue. The King of Hell said nothing, just tugged at his short beard and watched them, waiting. Waiting for what, exactly, Dean had no idea, but he didn't like the look that was playing around Crowley's eyes. Shifting Castiel's weight beside him, Dean turned his body towards the church door.

"Let's go," he said, and took a step forward—and stopped.

Castiel refused to move.

"Hey." Dean turned towards his friend, giving him a shake. He meant to say more, but fell silent when he saw the angel's face. At first he thought Castiel was just dazed, maybe woozy from losing so much blood, but he was wrong. That wasn't it at all.

Like a beaten dog, Cas' face was furrowed by a grey, broken look, the sharpness of his eyes blunted by immutable despair.

Dean knew that expression. He'd seen it on the angel before, years ago. It was the look of someone who was staring down the barrel of their own bad decision.

"Cas?"

The angel said nothing. His pale eyes remained downcast. The only sign Dean had that his friend had heard him speak was the minute shift he felt in the angel's weight. Castiel was trying to pull away from him.

Dean tightened his grip, pulling the angel back.

Beside him, his black-eyed double suddenly broke into an oily, hyena-ugly cackle. There were no words, just laughter, but Dean could practically hear the sing-song taunt: "_I-know-something-you-don't-know!_"

Rage began to bristle like push-pins out of Dean's shoulders. He shook Cas again, more roughly this time, and had just opened his mouth to curse him when he saw it.

It was quick, almost too brief to miss, but Dean caught it. It was the barest of glances, but out from under his bowed and shadowed face, Castiel cast out a cracked, pleading look—

—at Crowley.

Dean looked up sharply at the demon. The demon studied Castiel. Castiel had returned to staring blankly at the floor. Behind his king, Crowley's demon smoked lightly under the hallowed weight of the church, tugging nervously at his collar.

Except for the cackling of his double, which only Dean could hear, a strange silence had fallen.

Dean broke it with a roar.

"What _is_ this!?" he snarled, furious and confused. He held Castiel by back of his shirt as he turned to shout the angel down. "What is _wrong_ with you, Cas!? Let's _move_!"

Castiel flinched but didn't answer. Once again, he glanced at Crowley, which the hunter did not miss. It was the same whipped, sullied look as before.

Dean had his knife back out in a flash, its savage point brandished at Crowley.

"What did you do to him!?" Dean demanded.

Hands in his pockets, Crowley took a few more steps backward. If he was intimidated by Dean's display, he no longer showed it. Any semblance of his former fear was now gone. When he spoke, his voice was calm, his tone cryptic.

"Me?" the demon king asked, "Why, I didn't do any more or less than was bargained for, Mr. Winchester."

Cold, knowing fear lanced through Dean. He tried to quash it with denial, but his black-eyed double ruined the attempt when its mocking cackle rose to a maniacal shriek.

"_Now-you-know-what-I-know, hahahaha-ha!_"

On Dean's arm, the Mark of Cain pulsed red. Blood hissed in his ears. The hunter opened his mouth with a string of expletives prepared, but all that tore from his throat was a toe-curling, inhuman sound. He let go of Cas. The angel swayed and stumbled but caught himself on a pew. For Dean, the next few frames of memory blacked in and out like strobe lights.

Behind him, Castiel finally made a sound, shouting out his name, begging him, "_Don't!_"

Beside him, the black-eyed thing that looked like him guided his knife and egged him on, screeching "_Yes, yes, yes!_"

In front of him, Crowley side-stepped a swipe of his blade with only the slightest flinch, moving as if choreographed.

Dean sprang foward, continuing his wild attack. He howled, seeing a red world through his blood-thirst. Crowley, to his credit, continued to dance backwards with the grace of a swordsman, remaining just beyond the reach of Dean's knife. The Demon King seemed remarkably unconcerned at being the object of Dean's berserk, which only made the hunter more furious.

Suddenly, a flicker of flame-red hair and green velvet appeared in the church's side window. A lithe figure crouched there on the windowsill, back-lit by the moon. Drawing a breath, she let fly a string of incantations, her voice filling the room to its pitted rafters.

Mid-lunge, Dean was stopped fast, his body bound by the hex. With his arm drawn back to strike, the hunter howled against his sudden inability to move.

From her perch on the window, the witch Rowena dropped, cat-like, into the church. She approached Crowley, and together they watched warily as Dean struggled against her spell, his knife tip trembling and the veins rising out of his skin.

"Will it hold?" Crowley asked, but before Rowena could answer, the mark on Dean's arm began to glow white-hot and hiss. The smell of burning flesh hit the air, and Dean forced his way forward with one heavy, halted step. Then, without warning, his arm snapped free of the hex, and Crowley and Rowena were forced to spring apart to escape the cutting arch of his blade.

Crowley's face showed its first sputter of panic.

"Now, woman, do it now!" he cried, just as Dean tore his leg loose of the paralysis and pivoted. The Demon King ducked out of the way just in time, Dean's blade tickling his earlobe before being buried three inches deep in an exposed wall stud.

As the hunter strained to pull his knife free, a pair of slim, white hands clapped down firmly onto his forearm. Dean turned his darkening vision onto the witch at his side, his lips lifting into a wolf-like snarl.

"_You_!" he seethed.

The witch glared defiantly back.

"Aye," she said, "Me. _Signum Continere!_"

There was a flash of green light, a rush of warm, wild air, and a scream only Dean could hear. Then, for a moment, there was silence. All present stood still, holding their breath.

Still gripping the handle of his stuck knife, Dean blinked a grey film from his eyes. Dumbfounded, his gaze moved from the face of the red-haired witch beside him down to his marked arm, the skin now humming with strands of green sigils and runes. The markings glowed, encircling the Mark of Cain before settling. The light in them faded, and when the last of it was gone, Dean's knees gave way. He collapsed into the dust.

Dazed, Dean looked between the mark, Crowley, and Rowena. He looked behind him, towards Castiel. The angel stood silently in the pews, his eyes wide and staring.

Crowley sidled up to him, Rowena close behind, the both of them smirking at his stupefied look.

"And there goes Hyde," Crowley crooned, "leaving Jekyll in his place."

Dizzy, the hunter flexed his arm. The muscles felt weak, but the mark did nothing, its red will silent. Looking around the room, Dean realized his white-toothed, black-eyed doppelganger was nowhere to be seen or heard. He covered the mark with his hand and looked up at Crowley, at a loss for words.

The demon king raised an eyebrow.

"Welcome back, Dean."

* * *

Reviews are Loved.

Critiques are Encouraged.

Always feel free to ask Questions.

~dances-with-cacti


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note:** Here's another chapter for you guys. I hope you enjoy. If you are liking the story, please **fav/follow/review**. There's only one more chapter left to post to this story before I start the next installment (which will be rated M for Mature), so this story won't be hitting the Front Page anymore. I'd like to get the review count up before it's completed. If you feel the story warrants it, I'd really appreciate you dropping any note of any length. Thank you as always for reading. My readers are gold.

* * *

Servant of Heaven, Son of Cain

Chapter Eighteen

* * *

Charlie jolted at the sound of the bunker's blast door slamming back into place. With her thumbs doing the delicate work of navigating the drone's controls, she craned backwards in her seat to watch Sam's giant frame lope back down into the Great Room. Swinging on the railing, he skipped the bottom three steps and jogged to her side.

"Well?" he asked, slightly out of breath. Charlie grinned, turning back to the screens in front of her.

"It couldn't be working out better," she assured him, banking the drone towards the north, "You did awesome out there."

Sam breathed a sigh and sank down onto a stool beside her. With a hand braced to the back of her chair, he leaned in, squinting at images being fed to them by the drone's camera. Charlie ducked to the right to give him a better view of the computers. Bird's-eye shots of Lebanon, Kansas rendered rapidly across the screen. Everything was colored in neon.

"Is that Infrared?" Sam asked.

Charlie nodded, "Sure is."

She shot the hunter a side-long smile that made it obvious she expected him to be jealous.

He was. Sam's lips and eyebrows arched as he nodded appreciatively.

"Cool," he said.

"Way cool."

"…and expensive."

"Hm. Yeah," Charlie's smile faded as she remembered. She puffed out her cheeks as she let out a loud breath, refocusing on the drone controls. She was suddenly hyper-aware that she was essentially flying three months-worth of living expenses through the air, miles away, with nothing but propellers and radio signals holding everything up. She sank lower into her seat, her grip tightening on the joysticks.

She could feel Sam staring at her.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yep."

"You sure?"

"Yep."

"Charlie."

"Sam."

"You look like you're about to puke."

"Oh," she swallowed, "Well. Yeah, you know. You just reminded me that I sort of put myself in a hole to buy this schmancy rig and that if I make one wrong move, one _itty, bitty_ miscalculation, it'll crash and I'll have essentially just lit a giant pile of cash on fire. No big deal."

"Oh. Sorry."

Charlie drew in a steadying breath.

"No, it's okay, Sam. Don't worry. I'm fine. Everything is gonna be A-oka—AH! OH MY GOD!"

Charlie screamed and through herself to the left. The drone veered sharply with her.

Sam shot up. His stool tipped and crashed backwards.

"What!?" he cried, "_What!?_ What's wrong!?"

Charlie exhaled and fell back.

"Oh. _Phew_. Nothing. Nevermind. Sorry. Everything's fine."

She felt Sam staring down at her, eyes boring a hole in the top of her head. She flushed, slouching.

"…_hate_ bats," she muttered.

"What?"

"Bats. I just about hit some with the drone. They swooped into my flight path. Dipsticks."

"Oh," Sam frowned, righting his upturned stool. He sat down.

"Your reaction seems…_totally_ proportionate, then," he said.

Charlie chewed her lip.

"Yeah, I know, right? Plus, and like I'm sure you couldn't tell this, but I also have a crippling, completely rational, not-at-all-embarrassing phobia of bats, with their _creepy, flappy_ wings and their _fugly_ little faces…._blegh_."

Sam blinked.

"Wow."

Charlie wrinkled her nose.

"Shut up."

The hunter cleared his throat and changed the subject.

"So how do we use the drone to find Dean?"

Charlie, happy to talk about anything else, explained.

"Do you know the difference between a source and a sink?" she asked.

Sam thought a moment.

"Mm—yeah," he said, "I mean, I think so. It's been a while since I was in a physics class. It has to do with the flow of energy from areas of high concentration to low concentration. Right?"

Charlie nodded.

"You're close enough, at least for what I'm trying to explain. Okay, so in our case, we need to think of angels as 'sources,' demons as 'sinks.' Get me?"

"Sure."

"So I know you know this but angels are just—they're reactors. Nuclear power plants. They are constantly making and pouring their own energies out into the world around them. It's why they, you know, break windows and overload power-grids and burn out your peepers.

"Now, demons… they're the opposite. They're leeches. They feed on energy because they can't create their own. Think about it. Cold spots? Dimming lights? You get those before a demon attack because the demon's sponging up all the energy around it—heat, electricity, everything."

Sam sat quietly a moment, mulling over what she was saying. He nodded through each thought, increasingly convinced.

"That…that makes a lot of sense," he admitted, "But what about—"

"Possession?" Charlie cut in, the apologized, "Sorry, I just…I've been excited to explain this to someone. You, mostly. I don't think Dean would get it."

Sam smiled, "Aw, give him credit," he said, then waved her on, "But go ahead, this is interesting."

Charlie continued:

"Well, see, humans are homeostatic. We're not really sources, and we're not really sinks—not to the extent that angels and demons are, at least. Our bodies maintain a sort of natural equilibrium. So, we're sort of the ultra efficient hot-rods of the physical world—angels and demons ride us around for the exact same reason: we manage their energy needs. Angels need us to contain them, demons need us give them form. Even the verbiage to describe the two different types of possession make sense—'vessel' versus 'host.' A vessel holds something in, keeps it from spilling all over. A host…well, that word implies a parasitic relationship, which in the case of demonic possession is a bit of an understatement."

Sam ran a hand through his hair and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and looking up pensively at the ceiling.

"Huh," he said slowly, "Wow. I, uh…I never thought about any of it this way. From a scientific perspective, I mean."

From his tone, it obviously bothered him that he hadn't.

Charlie shrugged.

"I figured as much," she quipped, "Really, though, Sam—it's 2015. It's about time you and Dean added a little Sci to your Fi, don't'cha think?"

The hunter sighed and shook himself.

"Yeah…yeah, I guess you're right. So how does this help us?"

Charlie leaned back and pointed to the Infrared images on the computer screen.

"Look here," she said, indicating a bright yellow-and-orange blob that was shifting in an otherwise cool-blue environment.

Sam leaned in.

"What is that?" he asked, "Somebody rolling around in a field?"

Charlie snorted. "Mm, sort of. More like two-bodies rolling around in a field. Look closer."

Sam did, realized what he was seeing, and cleared his throat with embarrassment.

"Hey! Okay!" he said, waving his hand and looking away. "Nope. Nevermind. I see it now. Geez, Charlie, come on. Give those folks some privacy."

The hacker grinned. Nudging the controls, she panned the drone's camera away from the intrepid pair of heat signatures.

"Anyway," she said, "that's what human beings look like under Infrared. Demons and angels… they look just a _little_ bit different."

Sam eyed her. "How do you know?"

Charlie's expression was wily.

"Well, I wouldn't tell you I was sure all this would work if I hadn't already tested it out, would I?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, but she didn't give him the chance to answer. Taking her left hand off the drone controls, she reached back and pulled the hunter forward by the front of his shirt, putting his nose hardly an inch from the computer screen.

"Now, Sam," she asked, "What do your Moose eyes see?"

For a few moments, they saw nothing of interest as together she and Sam sat and stared at the camera feed. The drone panned back and forth over Lebanon, capturing images of warm-bodied animals—deer, opossums, and a single fox—as well as a few late night revelers who appeared to be stumbling home together from a bar.

Then they saw it.

"There!" Sam cried, pointing. He was out of his chair again.

"Bingo," Charlie murmured. Her fingers danced over a series a buttons and dials. She put the drone into an idle, zooming in the camera on a cluster of strange-looking reading-outs.

Two of the heat signatures were the bright, warm yellow of an average human being, but the other three didn't look like anything natural. Two of them were cold, dense blots of black against an already cool-blue background, with one being slightly bigger and darker than the other. The third presence pulsed from warm to white-hot, flickering like a star in the dark.

Sam knew what he was seeing the moment he spotted.

"Demons!" he hissed.

"And one angel," Charlie added, a bit surprised.

Sam looked at her.

"That's gotta be Cas," he said.

Charlie nodded.

"Probably. And this is just a guess, but I'm gonna bet that if Dean is anywhere in this town, it's gonna be in the same room as the only demons and angels for miles around."

Sam was already on his feet gathering up supplies.

"Do you have the coordinates?" he asked.

"Bottom left of the screen," Charlie replied, "Let me land this thing really quick and we can go. We'll retrieve it when we get there."

The hunter scribbled his brother's location on a piece of paper and tore it off the pad.

"I'll meet you in the car," he told her.

Charlie gave him a thumbs-up as she lowered the drone carefully into a copse of trees and flipped on the lo-jack, syncing the location to her phone.

"Roger, Scruffy-Bean-Pole."

Sam was already out the door.

* * *

Reviews are loved.

Critiques are encouraged.

Always feel free to ask questions.

~DWC


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